


Dominion: Armageddon

by liz_shelbourne



Series: Dominion: Revelations [2]
Category: Dominion (TV), Legion (2010)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 173,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23367073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liz_shelbourne/pseuds/liz_shelbourne
Summary: Nothing is the same for Alex.   Enemies are now allies, or worse.   Family is difficult, and the future is complicated by names from the past.The markings on his skin hold more power than he had ever thought, power and portent.   If only he knew how to use them…Together with the archangels and the last of humanity, the Chosen One will face the final battle, the war that he was born to wage.  The very reason for his birth.Lucifer waits.The second (and last) part of the series Dominion: Revelations, this story is best read after "Charlie."
Relationships: Alex Lannon & Charlie Lannon, Alex Lannon/Noma Walker, Gabriel & Alex Lannon, Gabriel & Michael (Dominion & Legion), Gabriel/Charlie Lannon, Laurel Phillips/Michael
Series: Dominion: Revelations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680661
Comments: 48
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The movie "Legion" and the television show "Dominion" and the characters created for them are owned by Scott Stewart, Vaun Wilmott and the talented writers and actors they employed. This work is not intended to infringe on any rights by and of the companies and/or individuals involved in the production of any series mentioned herein. They weren't allowed to finish things so I went ahead and did it for them.
> 
> This work is fiction and any resemblance to real life is...well, that used to be a joke but now things are a little too 'real.'
> 
> If this relieves any stress or boredom, then that is all the compensation I require. Oh, that and feedback. I appreciate anything you have to say, good and bad. Life is a lesson to be learned. This started out as practice to get back into writing after a long hiatus and turned into something quite a bit larger. but it remains a a writing exercise. 
> 
> Stay safe.  
> Liz

_Prologue_

Alex Lannon rolled over, inelegantly flopping his arms to the sides like a puppy first learning to use its gangly limbs. He left his eyes closed, reveling in the last vestiges of whatever dream he had awoken from, lingering in the feeling of warmth and protection that wrapped around him even more than the silken sheet that tangled about his bare torso and legs. He felt an inexplicable sense of peace, of love, that stayed with him even as it faded, settling into his unconsciousness as he slowly struggled toward the morning glow that played just outside.

The light – the light was _too damn bright_. His eyes – when he tried to force them open – felt like they were burning. God, his head hurt – his whole body hurt – but his head seemed as if it was swollen three sizes too big. He groaned, a bone-deep groan. His tongue was like sandpaper, his throat was on fire, his body so very, very weak. His stomach – ugh, his stomach twisted in a knot and it took every bit of his will not to spew its contents all over himself, for he certainly didn’t have the strength to turn over…

He was dying, no doubt about it. He was dying. Everything had come to naught, all the plans, all the battles, all the sacrifices, they wouldn’t mean a thing because he was going to die right there, wherever there was. 

He closed his swollen eyes again and tried not to cry, tried to just breathe, just lay there and breathe. Maybe death would come quickly; maybe his suffering would end soon. Breathe. At least that didn’t hurt. 

…didn’t hurt _too_ much…

Sleep once more pulled at him, offering comfort and escape. Gradually, that subtle feeling of love, of peace, returned, swaddling him again like the softest blanket, shushing the drumbeat in his head, soothing the burn like cool water. An ethereal spirit, a will-o-the-wisp of the heart, he tried to reach out to it and failed. The sensation would not be captured but nor would it leave. Alex would need to be content knowing that he was not alone, he would never be alone. 

The late afternoon light filled the room with a gentle radiance, lending a golden warmth to almost everything in the small space. Alex let his eyes open slowly – a faint memory of something painful tied to the action – and took in the area around him. He was in a strange bedroom, one he was sure he had never been in before. The furnishings were expensive, vaguely feminine, but impersonal – a guest bedroom. The Reisen’s had had a number of these rooms, extraneous spaces that he and Claire had made use of more than once. 

He lay on a twin bed – again, sign of the transient nature of his occupancy – with the covers tucked firmly around him. _That was weird_. He knew that he was a restless sleeper, prone to tossing and turning. Even in the barracks, his blanket had often ended up on the floor by the time morning muster had sounded. Either he had not moved in his sleep, something he found impossible to believe…

…or someone had recently tucked him in. 

It was an odd thought, but then again, his circumstances were odd. Unlike some of his more sexually-promiscuous friends from the Archangel Corps, he was _not_ accustomed to waking up in strange bedrooms.

Alex turned his head cautiously to the side _(why cautiously?)_ and scanned his surroundings a little more intently. A small wood escritoire sat near the door, the cherry polished to a lustrous shine but nary a paper or pen upon it, a matching chair with carved feet tucked underneath. A cheval mirror stood in the corner, tilted at an angle that leant soft light into the room. Diaphanous curtains on the windows, silk pillows and upholstery, everything had the feeling of good taste and good breeding, and lots and lots of money.

On the antique-looking nightstand at his side, a half-filled glass of water sat next to a bottle of pain relievers. He had the vaguest memory of forcing down a couple of them sometime during the night ( _or had it been the day?)_ but where had they come from? No matter what, the water was sorely tempting, his parched throat begging for relief. He downed it in one long, blissful gulp.

Tentatively, he sat up in the bed ( _again, why was he so afraid of movement?)_ and tried all his limbs. No damage, no cuts or bruises. His head felt a little foggy, a kind of pressure inside, but that was the only thing he could find physically wrong. The lack of memory, however, was deeply disturbing. He closed his eyes, trying to cast himself back to the last thing he could recall…

People, lots of people, and food and drinks and more drinks, bottles’ worth, shots…a party – no, a wake! A funeral he forced himself to attend and then a wake for…

…for Charlie. Commander Charlotte Lannon. 

_For his mother._

The pain shot through him like a lance, a psychological blow that felt more than physical. Breath shuddered in his chest and tears sprang forth unbidden as a low moan crept forth from the very depths of his soul. For a few hours he had forgotten that his mother was gone, _really_ gone, that she had returned to that vague land of unreality she’d existed in since…well, forever…more of a concept than a person. Until a few weeks ago, he hadn’t really known her, his loss had been at a disconnect, a second-hand mourning. But now, now that he had seen her smile and laughed with her and had her hold him in her arms…it wasn’t fair, it simply wasn’t fair. 

No one should have to lose their mother over and over again. Not even in Vega.

He sat that way for a while, letting the grief wash over him, letting the sorrow work its way through his system. The desire to crawl back into the bed was strong – he could seek out that shadow world of forgetfulness again, hide from reality, hide from the bitter truth – but he didn’t. He’d lost too many people to think that burrowing himself into the blankets would make any difference in the way he felt. 

Finally, he pushed his way up to standing, his balance a little off. Grief still sent little tremors through him, aftershocks of emotion, but he walked gingerly over to the window to look out and see if he could figure out just where the hell he had woken up.

The view was spectacular, it had to be one of the best in the city, facing toward the La Madre mountains, now backlit with the oranges and pinks of the late afternoon sun. Gorgeous.

La Madre – the mother. 

_Was everything going to remind him of her?_

At least he knew he was still in Vega. Now he just had to determine where and how he had gotten there. The fuzzy little murmur of pain was threatening to grow, pressing on the inside of his skull. He grabbed the bottle of pain relievers and headed toward the door, intent on finding something with which to take a couple more.

As soon as he opened the door from the bedroom, he recognized the simple, elegant, expensive design that had been Becca Thorne’s personal style. He was in her apartment – no, make that his mother’s apartment, or at least where his mother had been staying. Becca was dead, and in some strange recompense, Michael had insisted that Charlie stay there…

And now Charlie was dead, too.

The memories started to swirl around him now, coming fast and furious, his times with his mother here in this space. Bringing her breakfast that first day, feeling thrilled and yet awkward. Having lunch with her a few days later, finding out the truth of his parentage, his angry shouts and accusations. He’d been so cruel, so hateful, how could he have been so thoughtless? He should have been hoarding every minute he had with her instead of yelling and running off. Charlie had come back from the dead, _for him_! He should have glued himself to her side and basked in her formidable love.

Formidable indeed, so formidable that she’d taken on Julian and his eight-ball army and even tried to defeat Lucifer, all for the sake of her son. 

But she hadn’t been able to defeat the Archangel Raphael. 

Michael’s sister, Raphael. Raphael the healer, who had instead murdered his mother.

Alex rubbed his forehead with one hand, trying to push back the incipient headache that now lurked somewhere behind his eyes. He leaned against the doorframe and for a little while he indulged in some well-deserved self-pity. 

It was incredible, really, how his life was so impressively, monumentally, celestially _fucked up!_

Ethan sprawled across one of the oversize armchairs in the plush living room, his head lolling off to one side, his mouth open. An initial panic seized Alex, but then a deep and discordant sound echoed from the sleeping form and he had to grin. How someone that slight could snore that loudly was an oft-discussed mystery in the barracks. 

“Ethan,” he said softly, nudging his friend’s shoulder. “Ethan, wake up.”

Ethan’s lids flickered open just enough to show the whites of his eyes. He groaned and rolled to the side, clutching at his head. “Oh, god, I think I’ve been possessed.”

Alex laughed while he watched his friend curl into a tight ball on the chair. “I’m not saving your sorry ass if you are, you owe me money.”

“How can I pay you back if I’m possessed?” Ethan groaned again. “Seriously, you’re the Chosen One, just…put me out of my misery or something.”

Alex glanced at the bottle he had retrieved from the side table in the bedroom, then tucked it into the chair near Ethan’s head. “This is all I’ve got today.”

As he pulled his hand back, the light glinted off a silvery band on his little finger. He gazed at it, distracted, little glimmers of memory of the night before making their way forward to his consciousness. 

_“Your mother’s wedding ring.”_

Things were still disjointed, the events of the evening returning in pieces. Alex shook his head, trying to clear it, then grimaced – _that_ had been a mistake. Now he realized why he had previously been so tentative in his movements, a natural self-preservation instinct. The threatening headache burst forth and made itself fully apparent. “Take a couple of those and give me the rest,” he said to his friend, “I’ll find something to wash them down with.”

While Ethan opened one bloodshot eye to wrestle with the pill bottle, Alex went into the kitchen area. It was quite neat and tidy. That, too, was odd. He had expected at least some sign of the previous night’s gathering, but everything had been cleaned, put away or taken out.

Everything except for a plate of muffins that sat incongruously on the counter next to a pitcher of orange juice and two cut-crystal tumblers. A folded paper stood between the two glasses; Alex pulled it out to read.

_“Hydrate as best you can. When you feel up to it, Jenkins would like to meet. We have much to plan.”_

The handwriting was strong but elegant. Not Michael’s – no, he preferred to print, square, precise letters like an engineer.

 _Gabriel_.

Alex sighed as he filled the glasses and traded one of them with Ethan for the bottle of pain relievers. He shook out two of the pills, then three. Somehow, he had a feeling this headache wasn’t going to go away any time soon.

**PART ONE**

[ _Hebrews 4:12_ ](https://www.kingjamesbibleonline.org/Hebrews-4-12/) _\- For the Word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart._

**_Chapter 1_ **

Gabriel had done many difficult things in his long life: betraying his brother, Lucifer; burying David’s tiny battered body; dealing with the rejection of his beloved twin after the start of the Extermination War; watching Charlotte die at his own sister’s hand…. 

This, however, had to be near the top of the list. 

He and Michael had flown from dawn’s-light to dusk, from the towers and lights and people of Vega…

…to _New Haven._

Charlotte’s home, what might have been _their_ home, if not for… 

He banished the thought as best he could, concentrating instead on the lazy circle he flew around the perimeter, yet the memory of her was never far away. 

A peaceful little town. A peaceful life. 

_This could have been his life…_

Jenkins and the rest of the Wildcats had gone ahead two days before. As planned, they had packed up their motley collections of vehicles and set out northeast, toward the old states of Kentucky, Indiana and Ohio, taking Alex with them. The caravan would travel more slowly than the angels, with the limitations of trucks, people and gradually decaying roads causing constant (but not unexpected) delays. There was nothing like a simple road trip anymore.

Flying was more direct, and it wasn’t as if Gabriel didn’t know the route. He’d traveled this way before, without Charlotte’s knowledge, on a recon for Michael. He had felt ashamed as he had carefully searched out the scattered towns, villages and homes, ashamed because he had been going behind Charlotte’s back, deceiving the woman he loved, and he’d hated it.

Now he felt just as badly, yet in a completely different way. As he led Michael through the skies around the town they called New Haven, as he showed his brother the carefully crafted façade of abandonment – the vines-enmeshed rooftops, the judiciously-placed fallen trees, the fields planted in a bountiful chaos, how everything had been covered over, camouflaged, made to look as if there was no one there – he saw Charlotte’s hand. She had been a master at deception, glorying in all the ways the buildings and the homes and even the streets could be transformed from those of a quaint little village to what looked from the air to be a deserted ghost town. 

She had told Gabriel that her people had some leftover technology – they even had the know-how to use it – thanks to the ranks of the military that had originally formed the Wildcats. They had a variety of drones and other kinds of spyware that would be helpful for many things, including giving a bird’s eye view (or angel’s eye, as the case may be) to help with deception and defense.

She’d also told him that unlike the city of Vega, the Wildcats used satellite radios, bouncing off of the military comm satellites that still coursed through the sky. The celestial machines had never taken notice that their human makers had been all but eliminated, and her techs had claimed that they should be up for another century or so. As long as the Wildcats had the proper working hardware, they would be able to keep in touch with people all over the country, perhaps all over the world. It was something to keep in mind. 

Even now, both archangels had small satellite radios and earpieces, although Michael was much more comfortable with the technology than Gabriel. Michael was used to the chatter of strange voices in his ear, his brother was less sanguine - it was not only annoying; it interrupted the peaceful delusion of the flight.

The memory of Charlotte explaining the radios to him, describing how they had camouflaged the towns and villages, how they had hidden the crops with nets and wild plants, how they had cloaked the workings of the refinery with rust-colored paint and underground vents – it gave Gabriel a small spark of warmth in his chest. He had loved listening to her when she talked about her own. HER own, the place she had created for her people, all of her children. She was so very, very proud of it. He hadn’t even minded that she had, essentially, beaten him, that she had foiled his attempt to eliminate the human race. She’d won that battle and probably won the war – he’d never even known that New Haven existed and might never have. Humanity would have survived because of Charlotte Lannon.

Humanity would have also survived because of her son. _Their_ son. Alex Lannon, the Chosen One, as stubborn and strong willed as his mother. Gabriel wondered if he and Alex would ever see eye-to-eye on anything other than defeating Lucifer.

_Well, at least they had that._

Now the two archangels approached the tail-end of the convoy as they neared New Haven. Gabriel pointed to the road up ahead, just a little more worn than the others. If one hadn’t been looking for it, it wouldn’t have been noticeable. The convoy below them slowed, entered into a tree-lined path…and disappeared.

A small smile played over his face. Another one of Charlotte’s deceptions. She’d become a veritable magician, able to make entire battalions disappear into the environment. His heart swelled with pride even as it felt as if it were ready to break in half. 

The archangels gently made their way to the ground at the edge of the copse of trees. The road here was packed dirt, well-rutted but still showing grass and weeds in the center. It could be ten years old or it could be a hundred, for donkey carts or Humvees.

Jenkins had explained that the main military compound was actually outside the village proper, just short of New Haven, almost a small town of its own. The convoy would stop here first. The caravan of trucks and vehicles halted beneath a stretch of ancient oaks and maples, turned deep orange, russet brown and fiery red in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. The autumn colors contrasted brilliantly against the faded wood of the agricultural buildings and the dilapidated metal storage units that hid the well-kept and well-organized materiel of the Wildcat war machine. 

This was not their final destination, however. The archangels watched as the silent troops exited the vehicles to take up position in parade beside them. The soldiers solemnly straightened their uniforms, brushing away dust and wrinkles, then helped each other tie black scarves over their left forearms, covering the Wildcat patch they wore on their sleeves. 

The convoy had become a cortege.

At the front of the line, Jenkins sat on the bumper of the MRAP he had been riding in. His head was bowed and his hands were wrapped around a brass urn. He both looked and felt ten years older than when they had begun their mission – had it been only a few weeks ago?

Alex walked up and stood nearby, less than comfortable in the strange surroundings but unwilling to break the commander’s reverie. As Jenkins raised his head, there was a weariness in the commander’s strong features that hadn’t been there before. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Alex. It will help people, knowing that we succeeded, that _she_ succeeded, that it wasn’t all for naught.”

The younger man’s face twisted into a grimace. The urge to run was screaming inside him once again; he didn’t want to do this, he didn’t want to be here, among these people, feeling their grief. His own was more than enough. 

Jenkins stood, holding the urn in the crook of his arm, resting the other hand on the Alex’s shoulder. “I understand. I’d rather crawl in a hole and pull it in after me right now, too. But we have to do this, for Charlotte, for her people. They’re your people now, too.”

Alex silently bobbed his blond head. He licked his lips and breathed deeply. “I know.” The words were little more than a murmur.

The silence around them was interrupted by the muffled clop of horse hoofs on the packed dirt street. From between two buildings, a regal black mare strode forth, more than five feet tall at the shoulder, her long, wavy mane and tail brushed to an ebony luster. The young soldier that led her was in full dress uniform complimenting the horse’s shining tack. He carried a pair of tall, black riding boots tucked under one arm. 

Jenkins’ face lit up at the sight of the horse. He carefully set the urn down inside the MRAP and approached her, his hand out, a soft, warm smile on his face.

“Freyja, you old beauty.” The horse whickered at her name, bouncing her head for a pet. Jenkins obliged, pulling her long face up to his own, resting his forehead against her muzzle. He sighed, his eyes closed. “I’m sorry old girl, I didn’t want to bring you out for this.” He turned back toward Alex. “This is Freyja, Alex. Your mom’s horse. Colonel Andrews found her running wild down in Kentucky and he brought her home. He gave her to your mom as a present when she succeeded him.”

Alex tentatively walked up to the horse; he’d only seen pictures of the beasts before, never in real life. “She never talked about having a horse.”

“No, she wouldn’t. It was one of the few perks she allowed herself; a horse that wasn’t a farm animal, a work horse. Charlotte didn’t like to laud that over anyone, the fact that she had Freyja. She used her to ride whenever she could – around town, back and forth to the other camps. Sometimes, well, sometimes she’d take the old girl out for a run just to clear her head.” He rubbed the horse’s snout tenderly and was rewarded with an affectionate nose bump. “I think Freyja may have been her very best friend.” 

He saw Alex’s uncertain expression and smiled in encouragement. “Go ahead, you can pet her. She’s probably the sweetest, fastest thing you’ll ever meet.”

Reaching up timidly, Alex ran his hand down the horse’s lustrous black mane. Freyja bobbed her head once again and snorted. 

Alex backed off in fear and Jenkins chuckled. “Don’t worry, that just means she likes you. Here,” he grasped the bridle and pulled the horse toward Alex, then showed him how to hold it and where the animal liked to be scratched. “You give her a little love while I take care of this.” He then turned toward the soldier standing nearby and put out his hands. “Thank you, Carter. She looks beautiful.”

Carter handed over the boots, his eyes shimmering in the fading light. “I was proud to do it, sir. For Commander Lannon, sir.” He gave a crisp salute and backed away.

Stroking the horse’s velvety nose, Alex watched Jenkins carefully maneuver each empty boot into the stirrups. They were placed backwards, facing away from the horse’s head, exactly opposite of how he thought they should have normally been.

Alex’s questioning look was not lost on the commander. “It’s an old military tradition,” Jenkins explained, tightening the second boot in place. “Freyja will come after us, after your mom’s ashes, but before the troops she led. The boots are a way to show that she’s looking back to them, one last time. Kennedy, MacArthur, Mountbatten, Reagan, they all were honored this way.” Walking around, he stroked the flanks of the ebony mare. “I thought Charlotte deserved it.”

Once again, Alex was struck by how little he knew about his mother and just how much she was loved and respected. He felt his chest tighten and he looked up into the horse’s large brown eyes. It might have been his imagination, but he thought that Freyja knew what exactly was going on, that she knew she would never see her mistress again. Still, even in the midst of her own sorrow, she seemed to offer a calming sense of comfort, a gift of friendship. 

Alex bent his head toward her muzzle and closed his eyes.

Jenkins reached into the MRAP and carefully pulled out the bronze urn. He stood and sighed heavily, then looked back toward the collection of troops and their vehicles. “Let’s do this then. Mouse!” he called.

The tiny captain pulled her radio from its holster. She, too, took a steadying breath, then sent out the command. Their eyes locked for split second and the commander could see the shine of tears held barely at bay. 

They progressed into New Haven at a slow walk, Jenkins in the lead, carrying the urn, Alex immediately after him, following his mother’s ashes. Behind them, Carter led the mare, her hoofs almost silent, as if she knew to make as little noise as possible. The battalion next entered onto the main street paraded in stately rows, boots treading softly, engines running at soft idle.

The sun was just going down in the west, casting long shadows and a rose-gold glow. In the gentle light, Jenkins could see people coming out of the various houses and buildings along the thoroughfare, each carrying a single lit candle. They stood along the street, hundreds and hundreds of them, of all ages and races. As the cortege moved past, he could see their reactions. Men wrapped their arms around the shoulders of those near them, women held children close. Strangers reached out to hold each other’s hands. Some had their heads bowed, others rubbed handkerchiefs and sleeves against eyes and noses. More than one turned away, their grief a spectacle they did not want to share.

All along the street, the candles turned the gathering dusk into a sparkling, shining channel of light, a gentle passageway of love and respect for the woman who had left an indelible mark upon everyone assembled there.

Charlotte Lannon had come home to rest.

The archangels stood at the back of the line, watching as the soldiers and vehicles gradually made their way through the center of the tree-lined town. Gabriel’s eyes had never left the pair that led, his jaw clenched, his brow furrowed as he tried to hold back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him once again. 

“I don’t think we should follow them, Michael,” he finally said, his voice little more than a gruff whisper. “Let them have their time of sorrow before we show ourselves.”

Inwardly, Michael sighed in relief. He hadn’t been sure how the town would react to the presence of the two archangels, especially to Gabriel. He’d been torn between acknowledging Gabriel’s need to grieve with that of the townsfolk. This resolved the issue. He rested a supportive hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We will return tomorrow when things are settled.” 

Gabriel turned away without responding. With a rush, he spread his wings and took to the sky.

_New Haven_

The town hall was packed with rows and rows of soldiers, shopkeepers, farmers and other civilians, crowded into what had once a high school gymnasium. The space still had basketball hoops on either end and a raised stage that had been used for countless graduations and prom courts, but now it served a more communal purpose. Bleachers lined the sides of the long room and chairs had been unstacked and set in neat rows to fill in the middle, every one of them full. It may not have been the entire populace of the town, but it was more than a thousand people, all waiting to get the news that they would take back to their family and friends.

The huge overhead lamps burned with a harsh white glow, blanching out the tanned and wind-worn faces of many of the attendants. No one complained, however; it was a rare treat to use the old generators, to have access to microphones and speakers and lighting, a hint of the importance of this particular gathering.

A folding table and four chairs stood unoccupied next to an old wooden podium, the only items on the stage when the inhabitants of New Haven had started to arrive. Now that the room was filled – perhaps overfilled – they were still empty. A gentle murmur ran through the assembled mass, still coming to grips with the funeral procession of the night before. Furtive hugs were exchanged, voices hushed and eyes downcast

Finally, a small group, led by Commander Jenkins, walked somberly onto the stage. The three members of the Tribunal – a soldier, a farmer and a merchant – took their seats. This was the trio of delegates that made up every town government throughout the Wildcat sphere of influence. The large medallions they wore upon their chests shone in the bright overhead lights, the only mark of their status.

Jenkins moved to the podium, tapped the microphone and listened for the distant echo. He looked out into the faces of all of the people, _his_ people now. Not for the first time, the weight of his new responsibility felt heavy upon his broad shoulders.

“I want to thank you all for gathering this evening. I know that this is a difficult time for you, for us. We all feel the loss of Commander Lannon, each of us in our own way. To some of us she was a commander, a mentor, a guiding light. To those lucky enough to know her well, she was a companion, a confidant and a friend.” A soft, sad smile flit across his somber features. “No matter how you knew Charlotte Lannon, she made an impact on your life. I think it’s safe to say that few of us would be here today without her strength, her foresight and her leadership.”

A gentle murmur rolled through the crowd. There were more than a few heads bent in sorrow.

“Although Commander Lannon dedicated her life to us, to all of us in the community, she had a family of her own, a family she thought had lost at the very beginning of the War.” The murmur rose to a low rumble. Jenkins raised his hands for silence; he knew that this was news to many of the attendants. “Yes, yes, it’s true. Some of you know that this was the reason that we deployed on this last mission, and why she came along. Our assignment was to find her son, her only child, to find him and secure him from forces that aimed to do him harm. 

“And we did find him. We found out some other things as well.”

He paused, letting the momentum grow. “The Extermination War, as we know it, is over.”

The room erupted into a roar of cheers and yells. This was news that many had thought they would never hear.

After a short while, Jenkins raised his hands again. He was loath to quell the excitement – the people needed a ‘win,’ yet there was so much more to say. “Yes, yes, it’s true. I’ve got more, though. Please, settle down, we need to continue – thank you, thank you.”

The excitement that had filled the room settled into a quiet rumble. Jenkins leaned toward the microphone again. “I’m happy to say that we’ve brought the commander’s son back to New Haven, to meet you, to see the community that his mother helped create. Alex?” he looked off stage to his left. “Alex, would you come out here?”

The young man stepped out of the shadows, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and made his way awkwardly to Jenkins’ side. The crowd once again started to clap and cheer, and the commander put his arm around Alex’s shoulders, making him blush even more. 

Jenkins smiled broadly. “Alex Lannon, _Captain_ Lannon – yes, he’s a soldier just like his mom – he’s also a special young man. In the past few weeks, I’ve trained and fought alongside him and I’ve come to know that he is every inch a Lannon, just as brave and just as bold as his mother. I also know that she was very, very proud of him.” 

The room once more filled with applause and Jenkins let it run its course. It was important that the people accept Charlotte’s son as one of their own, as part of the community. It was the reason he and Michael had decided on this rather grand introduction – hopefully it would make what was to come a bit easier.

He waited for the noise to settle down then released his hold on Alex and held the sides of the podium instead. It gave him the air of gravitas that he wanted to convey. “The thing is, Alex is more special than you or I might expect, even as Commander Lannon’s only child. I know that over the past 25 years, there have been a lot of stories, a lot of people claiming to be the one to save us all. There is one story, many of you have heard of it, of a child, born at the beginning of the war, hidden away by the Archangel Michael, destined to be humanity’s savior in these dark times. That child was called the Chosen One.”

There were nods of assent and vague agreements from the crowd. Jenkins leaned over the podium, his words solemn. “Alex Lannon _is_ the Chosen One.”

It took nearly five minutes for the ruckus to settle down. Some of the citizens of New Haven were silent, perhaps dumbfounded by the news. Some erupted into colorful curses of disbelief; there was more than one “I’ll be damned” that floated up from the group. Many questioned their neighbors – not everyone had heard of the Chosen One – the legend was not the center of religion here as it had been in Vega. 

Alex stood next to Jenkins while it went on, wishing that he could somehow climb into the podium to get away from the stares, the questioning looks. He knew more than anyone how little he fit the role of ‘savior’; there were still days when he found it difficult to believe himself. Nonetheless, he understood that the people needed to see him, they needed to accept him if any of them were going to make it through the coming days.

At least that was what Michael had said.

Finally, Jenkins put his palms out, asking for attention once more. A young woman called out from the center of the room. “Did the Chosen One win the war? Did he kill Gabriel?” Various other voices echoed the question.

Jenkins sighed. This was exactly what he had been hoping to avoid. He hadn’t exactly planned out his speech, but there were things that he did and did not want to say. Now he was backed into a corner and he couldn’t see any easy way out.

He laid his forearms on the podium and ran his fingers along the upper wooden rail, then laid his hands down flat. His voice was quiet now, not the boom of authority he had projected before. “No. No, Alex did not kill Gabriel.” He paused, weighing his words. This was the most important part of his speech tonight, the part he dreaded the most. “I’m sorry to say, we have a new enemy, an enemy more powerful than we’ve ever seen before and one that we cannot defeat the alone. The truth is, we’re in a new war, one that we absolutely must win if we are to survive.

“We did not actually _win_ the Extermination War; we did not actually _defeat_ Gabriel.” He swallowed. “Gabriel has joined our side.”

The room exploded into cacophony, shouting and expletives and tears, a tragic, heady mix of disbelief and dismay. Everyone in the room had lost at least one friend, one loved one, to the Dogs of Heaven, to Gabriel and his hordes, it was impossible to believe that he was now their comrade.

And against whom? More than one person cried out for an explanation, for the name of this new foe, this danger that was so great that they would count _Gabriel_ as an ally.

There were a number of Jenkins’ people in amongst the crowd. They had been briefed on the situation and as impossible as it seemed, they trusted their commander. To a soldier, they all stood a little bit straighter, eyes darting left and right, muscles tightening, ready for action. They would not let this devolve into a mob scene.

Jenkins, on the other hand, looked as if he had been deflated. He hadn’t known how things would go – he hadn’t written any script or brought along any notes for this most important meeting. He had been gauging the audience as far as how much information they could handle, and it seemed as if he had gauged them quite wrong.

His first real act as the leader of the Wildcat community and he had failed. It felt as if he were facing imminent chaos.

Michael walked from the side of the stage toward the podium, his every step marked by resolve. He nodded briefly to Alex, then moved toward Jenkins and spoke in low tones. “I think it is time that these people met me.” 

He continued downstage to the center and looked out at the raucous, agitated crowd. There was a presence to him, a presence and a determination that everyone in the room could sense. 

_“I AM…_ ” he spoke with all of the authority and power of the Archistrategos, the Supreme Commander of the Heavenly Host, _“…THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL.”_

The sound echoed off the walls of the gymnasium and instantly silenced the collected crowd. To a person, the assembly stared up at him, dumbfounded. Unlike the residents of Vega, these people had not had the experience of an archangel in their midst. 

Michael stood for a moment, scanning the room, his dark eyes slowly taking in each and every resident, or so it felt. Just as he had with the people of Vega, he would need to guide the people of New Haven in the right direction, to make them see the need for the course he and Jenkins had charted. From their collected expressions of distrust, even of the Archangel Michael, it wasn’t going to be easy.

“Many of you know my history with your people, you know that I have fought alongside humans against the eight-ball army.”

“You mean against Gabriel’s army!” someone shouted from the back of the hall. There were various noises of agreement from around the room.

“Yes, against the eight-balls that had aligned themselves with my brother. But what Commander Jenkins told you was the truth – Gabriel no longer leads those troops; he no longer fights that war. He has united himself with me, with the Chosen One, with _humanity_ , against anyone who would raise a hand against them.”

Michael knew this was not the time to bring Lucifer into the equation – the mere thought that Gabriel was going to be involved was enough to cause dissention in the crowd, but he needed them to understand that their former enemy was a necessity. “In the coming days, it is likely that we will be facing another war with a different enemy, a different general for the eight-ball army. Commander Jenkins and I agree, we need to use every available soldier, every leader, every combat ready veteran. Gabriel has proven himself time and time again in the theater of war; we would be foolish not to use his experience.”

“He’s goddamn Gabriel!” someone in the back shouted. “His only experience is KILLING HUMANITY!”

There was a general rumble of concurrence as Michael turned cold blue eyes in the direction of the comment. His gaze settled on a man in an open uniform shirt, older than most but still powerfully built. The man’s grizzled hair was in a short buzz cut but his beard was ragged, as if he was trapped between his military and his civilian lives. 

Michael was quick to size him up. “You were a soldier before the Extermination War, were you not? You fought for your country?”

Everyone’s gaze quickly turned toward the older man. “Master Sergeant United States Marine Corps, _sir._ ” The honorific was shouted out with less than the usual respect. “Two tours in Afghanistan.”

The archangel thought this over for a moment. “You were involved in conflict?”

The man smirked. “That’s why we were there. Teach those rebels a thing or two.”

Michael clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his head ever so slightly to the side. “And if you had still been there when the Extermination War had begun, still been in Afghanistan when the angels fell from the sky, would you have continued that?” Somehow, he made it seem that he was having a private conversation while at the same time his voice reached to the very back of the room. “Would you have continued to ‘teach those rebels a lesson?’ Or would you have banded together with them to defend yourselves, to fight for humanity, to teach the _eight-balls_ a lesson?”

The grizzled man pressed his lips together tightly, his face darkening. He did not respond. The men and woman around him rustled uncomfortably.

“We’re not asking you to forget what Gabriel did, to negate his part in the War.” Jenkins spoke up as he looked out over the now-silent group. “We’re asking you to understand that for any of us to survive what’s coming, _we must work together_. Humans and archangels, New Haven and Helena, Vega and New Delphi and anyone else we might find. We all have to work together.”

“What _is_ coming? You still haven’t told us?” It was an older woman, her face tanned and weather-beaten, her eyes clouded with cataracts. Her tone wasn’t belligerent, simply committed. Others nodded in agreement.

Jenkins sighed and shook his head. “We’re still figuring that out, Alice, we’re still figuring that out, and when we know, we will tell you. You’ve trusted us for the last 25 years to do everything we could to keep you safe, I’m asking you to trust us for a little while longer.” The commander didn’t say what he was thinking – that they only needed to trust him a little longer because there would be no need to trust him after that, that one way or another, this was going to be the end – but he could tell, more than a few people understood, including Alice. The older folk knew, they felt it. 

The rumble started up again and he tried to hush it with a placating gesture. “I know this isn’t everything that you wanted to hear. I know you’re going to go home to your family and friends and they’re going to have questions and you’re not going to have all the answers – I don’t have the answers yet, either. But I want to tell you one thing – before we lost the Commander, before Charlotte Lannon died, this was the path she set us on. You can ask Michael and her son and anyone in First Platoon and they’ll all tell you the same thing – this is the course that she meant us to follow.

“Commander Lannon said something to us before our last operation, something that I think you should all know. She said ‘now is when we get to choose who is our enemy and who is our ally.’ She said ‘now we grab hold of Fate and make it our own.’ And that’s what we’re doing. We’re doing everything we can to ensure our success in this next battle, because it may be the most important one. We need to look beyond the past and to the future, because if we don’t, we aren’t going to have a future. It’s that simple.”

“If you’re saying that this is going to be the final battle,” Alice spoke up again, her voice strong and resolute, her filmy blue eyes nonetheless piercing, “then tell us one thing – who are we fighting? We deserve to know.”

Jenkins and Alex both looked at Michael. This was exactly the situation that they had tried to avoid and yet here it was. The commander’s face was telling – if it had been anyone other than this woman, this respected elder of the community, he probably would have pushed the question off. Yet even Michael could feel the wisdom of the older woman’s gaze. She had seen much in her years on earth, life and death, happiness and suffering. She had fought more than eight-balls, and she wanted to know what it was that she would be fighting here in her last days. 

As did they all.

Michael cast his eyes toward the side of the stage. Gabriel lurked in the shadows there, a mere outline of a form against the bright stage lights, but there was no mistaking the way he dropped his head in regret. 

The archangel turned back toward the old woman, then out to the audience at large. “She’s right,” he announced, his voice once more filling the space. “You do deserve to know.” He breathed deeply, setting his feet apart and placing a hand on the hilt of each of his swords. “Our new enemy is my other brother.

“Lucifer.”

It took nearly two hours for the auditorium to empty, two hours for people to settle down enough to leave, to go home to their families and tell them that while the Extermination War was over, Armageddon was right around the corner. 

There was shouting, there were tears, there were near hysterics. Jenkins gave up trying to speak again after about five minutes – nothing was going to get through. The people had to work things out themselves. He’d seen the same thing on the faces of his troops when he’d explained it to them prior to this town hall meeting – they’d been incredulous, then horrified, and justly scared to death. His troops, however, were full-time soldiers; they knew how to take that fear, compartmentalize it and get on with their duty. These people weren’t, and they had every right to be afraid.

The people of New Haven had been living with the dread of attack for more than 25 years. Sometimes it was better, sometimes it was worse, but it never went away. Right now, it was pegged out at absolute maximum.

Eventually the last of the town folk had dispersed into the night. Jenkins and the members of the Tribunal had done what they could to talk to groups of people, to try to quell the nascent hysteria, to explain that there _was_ a plan in the works. First Platoon milled around, looking as brave, professional and competent as possible, sending out little unseen vibrations of _“we’ve got this!”_ with every nod of a head, every pat on the back. It was an act, everyone knew it, but a placebo is called that for a reason.

Finally, Jenkins sat on the edge of the stage while First Platoon went to work dismantling the rows of chairs. The Tribunal came up as a group, as drained and deflated as the commander.

“That went…” the merchant, a middle-aged woman, started then left off with a long sigh.

“Like shit.” Jenkins finished for her. “Although I don’t know how else we could have expected it to go. There’s just no good way to give people bad news.”

The farmer, a man just a bit older than Jenkins, was more philosophical. “Now they know. We’ll get the word out to the other communities before it spreads by rumor, and everyone can prepare. Giving them something to do, giving them _purpose_ , some control over their lives, it’ll help.”

Jenkins rubbed his forehead with both hands – he had the mother of all tension headaches. “I’ve got runners going out tonight; there will be meetings tomorrow in all of the satellites and other villages and until then comms are on lockdown. I want to stay ahead of the hysteria.”

All three nodded. “What about the actual battle logistics?” the soldier asked. “You said you have something in mind.”

The commander nodded, his eyes closed, his fingers pressed just above the bridge of his nose. “I’ve had people working on it for a couple days already. As soon as we identified the target. We’ll be putting the specifics together tomorrow morning and implementing ASAP.” He squinted up, the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes heightened by the bright overhead lights. “I’m sorry, I need a couple hours of shut eye right now if I’m going to be any use at all. It’s been a helluva couple weeks.”

They all made conciliatory noises and made to leave the auditorium. The merchant paused, her hand on his forearm. “Malcolm. You’re doing a good job in an impossible situation.”

He gave her a sad little grimace. “I wish I agreed, but thank you.”

“I mean it. We all miss her, but we’re grateful that we have you.” She squeezed his arm. “Come ‘round the store tomorrow, I have a peppermint ointment for those headaches. In the meantime, get some ice and put it on your head. It’ll help.”

“I’d like to drown the whole damn thing in a bucket of it.” He gave her an exhausted, rueful half-grin. “Thank you, I’ll be by tomorrow.”

“See you then.”

He watched her go, with her sweet smile and kind eyes, yet beneath it he could see something else. Something they all carried, something beneath the strength, beneath the leadership, beneath the self-control.

Fear.

Michael had watched from one side of the room as Jenkins and the rest of the Tribunal had done what they could to keep the people in the auditorium from panicking. They’d done better than he had expected, going from one group to another with calm voices, gentle persuasion and definite but not overt signs of authority. It reminded him of firefighters back in the Second World War, pouring water on buildings to keep them from burning to the ground, efficiently going about their jobs even while bombs might be dropping around them. The archangel could actually feel the tension in the room gradually ebb.

At least somewhat.

Alex had done what he could, too. A newcomer – and therefore suspicious – he had the advantage of being both Charlotte Lannon’s son and the Chosen One. Although not as popular as Jenkins and the Tribunal, there were a few people that came up to him either out of respect, curiosity or because they might not be able to get an audience with others.

Michael, however, had no such problems. The denizens of New Haven had done their very best to stay well away from the archangel, offering sideways glances and furtive peeks instead of questions and requests for reassurance. He didn’t mind; few of the inhabitants of Vega had ever found the fortitude to actually look him straight in the eye, and those that had were usually his enemies.

Gabriel had never made an appearance, which was certainly for the best. Michael had felt his brother watching from the darkened wings of the stage, standing behind the ancient, faded velvet curtains, a little like a troll hunkered down beneath a bridge. Part of him pitied his twin, part of him still held on to the residual anger – how had Gabriel let himself be so manipulated, so maneuvered into exactly the position Lucifer wanted him in? Even after all these years, after their reconciliation, Michael could still not understand how Gabriel had been led so astray.

Eventually the room had cleared out to the point that Michael felt his presence was no longer needed (not that it had ever been really wanted.) He said his short goodbyes to Jenkins and his companions, told Alex that he would see him in the morning, and headed out the side door of the auditorium. 

The night air was crisp, not yet frosty but certainly heading that way. The stars, however, were nearly crystalline in the clear sky. Michael took a moment to peer up, his dark eyes tracing across the heavens, memories of other places, other worlds, other peoples, rolling through his mind like a film on fast-forward. As fatalistic as he generally tried to be, right now he felt trapped. Trapped by Father’s absence, trapped by Gabriel’s actions, trapped by his promise to the Chosen One, trapped by his own need to save Lucifer’s body so long ago. Those crystal stars seemed so very, very far away.

“You’re Michael, aren’t you?” 

The voice was gruff but familiar. Michael slowly lowered his gaze, turning around to find a group of men and women behind him. A half-dozen or so, the bearded man from earlier in the evening stood in the lead. A sergeant in the Wildcats from the insignia on his shirt. And not the only soldier in the group.

“I am.” Michael’s response was icy. “Is there something I may do for you?”

“Yeah,” the man rolled his shoulders back, building up his bravado. “You can tell us why your brother Lucifer gives two shits about us humans. From what I hear, it’s you archangels that cast him down. His beef is with you, not us.”

Michael took a long, calming breath. Now was not the time to be reactive. He understood that these people were frightened. He would need to be as Jenkins and the Tribunal, working to ease the fear, lessen the panic.

“That is very true. However, we’ve learned that Lucifer has designs on the Chosen One, and that means humanity. We need to work together to defeat him.”

“‘ _We need to work together_ ,’” the soldier echoed, mocking the archangel’s accent. “Says you. I don’t take orders from you. My _superiors_ don’t take orders from you. I think we need to remind some people of that.”

The group started to move in on Michael but he held his ground. “Your superior is Commander Jenkins and he and I are in agreement on the matter.”

“Jenkins,” the soldier spat out the name in disdain. “You come in, you and Gabriel and your Chosen One, and we’re all supposed to get in line to go fight for you, to die for you, just because Jenkins says so? Fuck that, archangel. Go fight your goddamn brother by yourself. We’ve gotten along just fine without you and your fancy Chosen One for this long, we don’t need you.”

“My brother – “

“Your brother? _YOUR_ brother. _YOU_ are the problem. _YOU!_ _Angels! All_ of your kind.” He pulled a thick metal pipe out of his back pocket. Others brought out cattle prods, bolt stunners, heavy wrenches. “Maybe it’s not just the eight-balls we need to get rid of, maybe we need to get rid of _all_ of you!”

Michael slowly pushed the sides of his long coat back with his thumbs, exposing his two swords. “I don’t want – ”

The agony was instantaneous and intense, an electric shock that hit him between the shoulder blades and violently coursed through his body. He’d been too focused on the group in front, too concerned with placating them, and he’d never heard anyone come up behind. They had caught him by surprise. His arms flung up, his head snapped back and along with the incredible pain, he had the most ridiculous feeling of déjà vu.

Michael crumpled to the ground, every one of his muscles spasming in terrible concert. There was nothing he could do as the citizens of New Haven gathered round to take their fears out upon him.

Gabriel had wanted to leave earlier, but he had stayed for Michael’s sake. Not that his twin had asked him to. No, God's Sword was not that way, but when Gabriel had seen how the people of New Haven had shied away from Michael, had gone out of their way to avoid being near him in the crowded auditorium…well, no one liked being made a pariah, even if they were an archangel. Gabriel had decided to stick around for moral support, if nothing better. 

It wasn’t as if he had anywhere else to be.

They’d agreed to rendezvous at a small cabin on the outskirts of the military compound, a place usually reserved for visiting commanders and the like. Jenkins had offered it for their use and while they didn’t necessarily need it for sleep, it would be nice to have some quiet place to unwind, to talk. 

He had stepped out onto the loading dock of the auditorium, flipped his hood up and made ready to take to the sky when he felt…something. Or had he heard it? He tilted his head, trying to catch whatever it was, within or without, reaching out with his senses and his thoughts…

The breath exploded from his chest in shock.

_Michael!_

Gabriel landed just a few yards away from the melee, his feet hitting hard and making an audible _thud_ on the solid-packed dirt. He quickly counted almost a dozen people standing in a circle around a central figure on the ground, various weapons in their hands, everything from cattle prods to shovel handles. He saw one of the forsaken stun guns that Charlotte had brought to Delphi laying on the ground, its wires extended, already used.

His arrival took their attention away from Michael’s still form. With both hands, he nonchalantly flipped back the hood on the leather duster and casually rolled his shoulders to tuck in his wings. He stood with his feet apart, his hands still at his sides, unarmed, purposefully non-aggressive. 

His voice, however, rolled like thunder. “Leave my brother alone, he does not deserve your wrath. He has done nothing but fight for humanity in this war. Your quarrel is with me and with me alone.”

One of the men pushed his way forward, a burly type wearing green fatigues, an unkempt beard and sergeant’s stripes. He held a length of pipe that he’d been about to use on Michael’s still form. 

“Quarrel?” the man asked in disbelief, spittle flying out with the word. “Quarrel? You’re Gabriel, aren’t you? You’re the son of a bitch responsible for destroying the whole goddamned planet. I think we’ve got a little bit more than a ‘quarrel’ with you.”

Gabriel slowly closed his eyes, breathed deeply, then opened them again. His voice was quieter now, resigned. “I don’t deny it. I only ask that you leave Michael out of whatever retribution you feel you need to take.” He glanced at his twin, lying prone on the dirt road. “For what it’s worth, his only sin has been trusting your kind.”

He lifted both hands in an attitude of surrender, then slowly reached down with his right hand and pushed back his coat, unknowingly echoing Michael’s actions of only moments before. Everyone tensed and weapons raised. “I’m going to take my sword off and throw it over there,” he said, jerking his head away from the group, away from them all.

No one said anything for a moment and Gabriel cocked an eyebrow at the one seemingly in charge. “Do it,” the sergeant growled. 

Without ever taking his eyes off the man, Gabriel reached for the sword, using only two fingers to pull it out of its scabbard. True to his word, he flipped it off to the side, away from everyone. “Alright then. No weapons.” He raised both hands again. “I’ve nothing else.”

“Right then. Let me tell you something,” growled the lead man. “I learned one thing in the war. Never, ever, trust an angel.” With unexpected quickness, he pulled one of the stun guns out from behind him, instantly aiming and burying the dual spikes into Gabriel’s upper arm. 

The archangel’s eyes went wide, and as he fell twitching to the ground, a single thought ran through his mind.

_He truly, passionately hated those weapons._

Jenkins was tired. He was tired and his head hurt and things had _not_ gone well. Okay, they’d gone as well as could be expected, given that he’d pretty much announced the potential End of Days, but still, it could have gone better. Commander Lannon would have done better. He knew that, not in a feeling-sorry-for-himself-way, but in a deep down, need-to-get-better-at-this kind of way.

If he got the opportunity.

Mouse ran up to him as he was heading for the door of the auditorium. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

He rubbed at his forehead again. “Did I?”

“Yes, sir, you said this afternoon to come see you after the meeting. You had something you wanted to talk to me about?”

“That was before everything went to hell.” He frowned. “Honestly, Mouse, I’m sorry, I don’t remember what it was about.”

She gave him an understanding smile. “That’s okay, sir. Opening Night’s never easy, and it was a pretty tough crowd.”

He couldn’t help but to laugh – gently, trying not to make his head hurt any worse. “Yeah, it was. Why don’t you walk with me and maybe it will come back to me.”

She agreed with a smile and they headed out into the cool night air. 

“Give me your honest opinion, Captain,” he said after a few feet. “How do you think people took the news?”

“Well, sir, I think…” She paused suddenly and stopped walking. Her head turned back toward the gymnasium. “Do you hear that?”

Jenkins listened. The echoes of shouting and jeering could be heard from around the far side of the building. “That doesn’t sound good, that doesn’t sound good at all.”

“No, sir,” Mouse was already drawing her side arm, “no, it doesn’t.” She nodded to him and together they sprinted toward the noise.

Three gunshots rang into the air. Instantly, a dozen people fell into protective crouches, looking like so many rats around a garbage pile.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!!!” Jenkins head reverberated with his own voice; he was going to pay for this later but right now the adrenaline was pumping too fast for the pain to catch up. He could see Michael on his hands and knees off to the side, obviously too weak to do anything, and in the middle of the pile…

“Get off him, you ignorant fools!” The commander charged toward the group, grabbing more than one person and throwing them to the side. “Back off, back off!” He reached down to the gory mess on the ground, his fingers finding bloody gashes, exposed bones…and a pulse.

Mouse stood off to the side, radio in one hand, already calling for back-up, while the other held the pistol on anyone who dared make a threatening move. “Who is it, sir? Are they alive?”

“It’s goddamn Gabriel, that’s who,” came a belligerent voice from the group. “Deserves everything he got.”

Jenkins stood up and rushed toward the speaker. “Beaumont! Is this your idea?”

The grizzled soldier came forward with a self-congratulatory swagger, smacking the metal pipe against the palm of his other hand. “You mean did I finally take down Gabriel, something you never could in 25 years? Damn right I did.”

Jenkins fist flew without warning, connecting solidly with the other man’s jaw and sending him sprawling across the road. The pipe flew out of Beaumont’s hand and clanked against the building, a dramatic exclamation in a now silent tableau.

“Mouse,” Jenkins called out between heaving breaths. “You will notify the relevant parties that Sergeant Beaumont has been Dishonorably Discharged by Executive Command. He is also under arrest.”

“Yes, sir.” She bobbed her head toward the end of the building. “MP’s are here.”

“Good. See to Gabriel, will you?” 

There was a split second of hesitation before she answered. “Yes, sir,” she repeated, and holstered her weapon.

Jenkins rubbed at his knuckles as he scanned the rest of the group. “The rest of you are all very lucky Gabriel is not dead, or you would be looking at capital charges. I would highly suggest that you volunteer for the most dangerous details you can find in our upcoming maneuvers.” His eyes scanned the chastened men and women. “I know who you are, and I don’t forget. Now get the hell out of here!” he shouted. “Leave your goddamn weapons and get back home and be grateful you picked a fight with an archangel.”

Michael pushed his unsteady way through the group as they disbanded. “Gabriel,” he called softly.

Jenkins held him back. “I’m sorry, Michael. He’s unconscious. She’s a field medic, let her do her job.”

Michael nodded but said nothing. He watched in silence as Mouse gently rolled Gabriel onto his back, supporting an arm that flopped at a very wrong angle. She looked up at her commander and the other archangel with wide eyes. “It’s bad, sir, way more than I can help with. He’s going to need a full med team.” She reached for her radio again. 

Jenkins pulled Michael off to the side. “Did they attack you, too?”

The archangel seemed dazed. “Yes…mostly the stun guns, the cattle prods.” He rubbed unconsciously on his upper arm while he shook his head in a mix of sorrow and disbelief. “Gabriel came to my rescue. He…he sacrificed himself for me. He threw away his sword, he never even defended himself…” His voice trailed off. “Why would he do that?”

Jenkins was fairly sure that he knew the answer but kept silent. “Are you ok? Do you need help?”

“I’m weak,” Michael continued, “not really hurt.” He watched while a couple of corpsmen appeared from seemingly out of nowhere with a stretcher and supplies. They gently worked to get Gabriel’s unconscious form onto the gurney even while Mouse continued to apply pressure bandages, to splint his leg, to tie down his dislocated arm.

Michael watched them, stunned into immobility. As they made to leave, he suddenly moved to intercept them. “Stop. He’s an archangel.”

“He’s hurt, Michael,” Jenkins countered. “I don’t care what he is, he needs help, lots of it.”

The dazed look was replaced by one of determination. Michael’s hand brushed over his brother’s bruised and battered face. “He’s an archangel,” he repeated. “I can heal him better than your human doctors.”

The commander pursed his lips. This was new territory for him, working with archangels. He couldn’t afford to lose his new allies. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll need assistance and somewhere safe and warm that he can stay for a day or two.”

The answer came to Jenkins like a gift from above. He nodded. “I’ve got just the place.”


	2. Chapter 2

Gabriel could feel the soft warmth of a wet cloth gently move across his forehead, more a sensation of kindness than actual fabric or dampness. It patted softly at his temple, then down to his cheek –

 _No, that hurt!_

His eyes flew open and he roughly grasped the hand raised in front of him, holding it with bone-crushing strength. He sat up and frantically scanned the dark room, seeing nothing familiar. “Where am I?” he wheezed.

A woman, a rather tiny thing, stared at him without speaking, her lips pressed together in a taut line of pain. Water squeezed out of the cloth in a miniature rivulet, running through the women’s fingers and down Gabriel’s hand. Still he held on. 

Memory slowly returned. “I know you,” he croaked out, his voice even more gravelly than usual. “You’re that Mouse-person.”

The woman’s delicate brows lifted over chocolate brown eyes. “Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. “And you’re breaking my wrist.”

He released it slowly, settling back onto the bed but never taking his eyes off the her. She cautiously pulled her arm back, taking the washcloth with the other hand and dropping it in a nearby washbasin. With a shuddering breath, she pulled her hand to her chest, a protective motion.

Gabriel turned away, his movements stilted by unexpected pain. He took in what he could see by the low light of the oil lamp on the table nearby: a sturdy dresser next to an empty quilt rack, another table with pitcher and bowl, a wall mirror, a painting too dark to see. A simple, spare room, but not without warmth. “What is this place?”

For a moment she did not answer, instead rubbing gently on the red marks already showing on her wrist. “You were beaten up pretty badly; your brother needed a place for whatever it is you archangels do to try to heal yourselves. We brought you here.” Her voice was flat, as if she was trying not to let her emotions show. “This is Commander Lannon’s house.”

A sudden stab of agony that had nothing to do with his injuries burned through Gabriel’s chest. His breath caught in his lungs and he had to will himself to relax, to breathe. Subconsciously he had recognized it, the barest scent, the lingering perfume that had been dancing around the edges of his psyche even as he slept. It was her scent, Charlotte’s, and it brought back wave after wave of memories. He let his head fall again onto the cotton pillowcase, inhaling deeply, trying to capture every bit of that essence that might remain.

Mouse did what she could to squeeze out the cloth out with her one good hand while carefully flexing the other. She tried not to outwardly wince. Her wrist didn’t actually seem broken, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt, or that she was able to use it. 

_Proving once again,_ she told herself, _that no good deed ever goes unpunished._

Nonetheless, Jenkins had given her an assignment and she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to see it through, one-handed or not. She held back the urge to sigh and instead put on her best “professional” look. “Let me get some more of the blood off you. I want to see how your injuries look.” She rested her hip on the bed and leaned over just a little awkwardly, still cradling the throbbing arm to her body. Carefully, she patted at the crust of blood that ran along his hairline, gently teasing the dark brown crystals away from skin and hair. 

The archangel did not move this time while she wiped at his forehead, his temple. She swirled the cloth in a nearby bowl, then gently smoothed it along the side of his face. The terrible swelling and bruises that she expected to see, that she knew _should_ be there, the results of fist and cudgel, simply _weren’t_. A smudge of purple under the skin, a slight puffiness, that was all there was. 

Her fingers lifted carefully behind his shoulder. “I want to see your back, turn over if you can.”

Gabriel remained silent, but he turned his body away from her, rolling over onto his far shoulder with a low grunt. Once again, the cloth was rinsed and squeezed out, once again it was carefully dabbed over red-brown streaks of dried blood, and once again the smears washed away to show only the mildest of bruises, the slightest of marks upon his skin.

“I don’t know what your brother did to fix you,” she said, rinsing out the cloth once again, “but he saved your life.”

“Archangels are difficult to kill,” came the muffled reply.

“That doesn’t mean they weren’t trying.” She guided his shoulder back and let him rest once more against the pillows, then folded down the quilt that covered his chest. She’d seen the gore on him when she had tended to him in the street – the arm that had hung useless, the stripes of flesh pulled from his back and chest, the exposed ends of broken bones – and yet now all that was left was a kaleidoscope of brown and red crust and dirt on his smooth, healed skin. Part of her was amazed, part horrified. The archangel was miraculously cured, yes, but it was her friends and comrades who had inflicted that panoply of horror against him. They hadn’t been soldiers in a war, they had been a mob.

Gabriel kept his eyes closed. He knew what she was doing, looking to find injuries that his brother might have missed. However, Michael was meticulous in his ministrations; she would not find anything. Nonetheless, it felt good to be done with the itch of the dried blood, the annoying pull that it made across his skin. “You have a healer’s hands,” he finally said in a monotone not much more than a whisper. “You remind me of my sister, before…”

“Before what?” she prompted.

“Before Raphael lost her mind…before she killed my wife.”

Mouse froze. His wife? Archangels had wives? It seemed so… _human_. 

Then it hit her – Jenkins had intimated that Commander Lannon had a relationship with Gabriel…and Raphael had killed the commander…

Yes, she’d heard a rumor that the commander and the archangel had a son together, as difficult as that was to wrap her mind around, but that was long ago. And yes, she’d noticed Commander Lannon’s attitude toward Gabriel change in the time that they had spent in Vega, but….

The commander was his _wife_? 

“Stay there,” she instructed. “I need fresh water.” She crossed the room and awkwardly retrieved the basin and jug that stood on the table there. 

She needed time to think.

Mouse returned in a few minutes to find little had changed. Then again, everything had changed. Gabriel still lay on Commander Lannon’s bed where she had left him, his eyes closed. 

Although now…well, now he had a kind of right to it. Or did he?

Her head cocked to the side a little and she took a long look at the archangel as he lay there. She had to find a way to work this new intel. Most of her assignments tended to be fluid, an adapt-and-adjust kind of exercise, but this one had taken a turn she had never seen coming.

Jenkins had asked her to tend to the archangel while he healed, both as nurse and as guard. She’d trained as a field medic, she knew more than the typical first-aid, and there were few people Jenkins trusted more – he’d told her that he didn’t want anyone taking the opportunity to finish the job started the night before. Yet despite the command request, she had been hesitant – this was Gabriel, the architect of the End of Days. She’d lost so many to his army, to the Dogs of Heaven: friends, family (what little she’d had), fellow soldiers. She understood why the archangel had been beaten within an inch of his life; many felt the same way, had suffered the same losses.

Now they were all supposedly on the same side, working to defeat yet another archangel. Jenkins had laid it out before they had left Vega, explained what the new reality of this world was, at least for this week.

Reality had a terrible way of changing these days.

Still… _his wife?_

“I’m sorry, it’s going to be cold.” She went back to her work, clearing away the last of the evidence of the fight. The cloth swept slowly across his long neck, his lean, muscular chest and arms, and in spite of herself, Mouse had to give Commander Lannon credit – the archangel certainly was attractive. Well, more than just _attractive_. Not exactly her type, but she could see why the commander had fallen for him, at least physically.

Wringing the cloth out again, she dabbed at the last of the blood on his abdomen, a place she knew had suffered mightily. Underneath the crust of brown there was not much more than a faint reddish mark. “Does it still hurt?”

Gabriel laughed softly. “Yes, quite a bit. Michael has more than a little experience putting me back together, but your comrades did a thorough job of it. Normally I would recover with a few hours rest, but what they did – it’s going to take a bit longer.” 

“Then why did you let them?” She set the cloth and bowl aside and pulled the sheet and blankets up over his chest, tucking them in gently. “I heard what your brother said to Jenkins; you didn’t put up any defense, you just let them beat you.”

His head finally turned toward her and his eyes slowly opened. “Their wrath was aimed at me and rightly so. I could not let them take out their vengeance on Michael; he’s only aided you humans. Your people wanted an enemy to attack, to assuage their grief, and I gave them one.”

She looked at him again for a long time. This archangel, this _Gabriel_ , certainly wasn’t what she had expected. Nothing lately was really what she expected, from the Chosen One to the archangels to her commander – in love with Gabriel himself. 

But now the Commander was gone – Charlotte Lannon, the glue that had held the world of the Wildcats together through sheer force of will. The woman who had taken Mouse under her wing, who had been a mentor, a teacher, a friend – Commander Lannon was dead.

And there was an archangel laying in her bed.

_Adapt and adjust._

This was going to take more adjusting than usual.

“Get some rest,” the young woman said suddenly. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

“About your arm,” Gabriel said, his eyes once more closed, already drifting off. “I didn’t realize…”

Mouse rubbed gently at the bruises on her wrist, her emotions still muddled. She’d get some ice as soon as he was asleep. “I know.”

_The early morning sun cast gentle tendrils of light across the horizon, barely touching the very highest peaks of Vega. Gabriel stood before the broad expanse of the window, the diaphanous curtains pulled back, gazing out into the distance, clad only in the leather pants he’d found thrown over a chair. He hadn’t meant to stay this long – to see the sunrise from Charlotte’s bedroom, to be here when the new day dawned – but it had been impossible to leave. Somewhere around midnight, Charlotte had drowsily wrapped herself around him as securely as the cord he had tied around their hands a few days before, holding him just as fast, with just as much love. He couldn’t have broken that bond even if he had wanted to._

_Now he looked back at her, curled into a sleepy tangle of sheets on one side of the bed, her hair spread out on her shoulder like a dark gold veil in the dusky light of the room. For a moment, he felt an ache deep inside, a strange kind of pain – he loved her so very much, it actually hurt, but in a good way. Still, staring out into the towers and streets and buildings of Vega, into the city that neither of them belonged in, the pain brought into sharp focus the question of their future._

_They would not stay here. Charlotte would want to return to her people soon, she was their leader, she had responsibilities._

_And what would he do? Realistically, he had no responsibilities now, no army to lead, no war to wage, other than the nebulous campaign against Lucifer. Would she want to bring him along, bring him back to her base, to bring home her mate, her husband…the Archangel Gabriel?_

_That would certainly go over well._

_His head fell back and he rolled his shoulders, flexing the muscles, releasing his wings, letting them spread out behind him. It felt good to stretch every once in a while, to remember, to feel at least a part of his true essence. In reality, wings could be a bit of a bother here in the confines of modern civilization, knocking things over every time one turned, catching every bit of dust and dirt, but there was nothing better than soaring through the air, catching an updraft, gliding along silently through the night..._

_No, not here, not now. Now he needed to be as human as possible, to be the diplomat, the husband, the father. He gently folded his wings back into place and stared out into the slowly brightening day, his thoughts wandering back to Charlotte, to Alex, to his nascent family. A small price to pay for family._

_Without a word, Charlotte’s arms moved around him in a languorous motion that belied her still-sleepy nature. One hand wrapped around his waist possessively while the other slid up his bare chest, searching for a secure handhold. Gabriel could feel the warmth of her breasts through the thin silk of her gown as she pressed against his back. Her cheek lay against his bare shoulder and she made contented little mewling noises. He smiled to himself, wrapping his own arm around hers. She was wearing the emerald green robe that she had so unceremoniously tossed off previously; now it molded to her naked body, sliding between them like water, a deliciously sensual smoothness. After leather, silk had quickly become his second favorite fabric._

_“I didn’t expect to find you here,” she purred into his shoulder. “It’s a nice surprise.”_

_A little rumble of mirth rolled through his chest. “You wouldn’t let me go.”_

_Her arms squeezed just a bit tighter and she sighed contentedly. They stood like that for a few minutes, pressed together, feeling the warmth of each other. After a time one hand unwound from around his waist and instead traced its way up his back. He could feel her fingertips following the contours of his arm, his shoulder. Her hand came to rest between his spine and shoulder blade._

_With one finger she traced down the smoothness of his skin. “What do you look like, I mean, when you’re not…this way.” Her hand caressed again over his shoulder._

_She’d been watching him, then, while he had unfurled his wings. Her fingertips skimmed over the place on his back where they had appeared – and disappeared – giving him a kind of shiver. “What do you mean?” He knew exactly what she meant, but he was stalling for time, thinking._

_“You know, what did you call it, ‘your angelic form,’ when you’re not here on Earth, in this…body.” She wrapped her arm around his waist again, pressing the side of her face against his back. “Not that I don’t adore this body,” she added, her voice sultry, as if she was trying to make up for some faux pas._

_He paused, still thinking. “Until Father returns, I shall have no other form.”_

_“You know what I mean.” Her hands once again released their hold and instead ran in tandem up his back along his spine. “You have wings. That in itself is different, and I’ve stop trying to understand them. But I doubt you look like this when you’re running around the cosmos. It wouldn’t make sense.”_

_He turned and wound one arm about her waist, drawing her in close. He could still smell the scent of the soap they had used the night before in a long, steamy shower. “My inquisitive little cat. Why do you want to know?”_

_She failed to catch on to his playfulness, and the eyes that looked up at him were curious but somber. “I feel like I know you, but I don’t. In some ways I know you better than anyone I’ve ever met, and vice versa. Then I remember that you’re not the same man I knew in Denver, that you’re not even a man at all, and I wonder who you are, what you are.”_

_He watched her for a moment, then reached up and pushed the sleep-tousled hair away from her face. She was quite serious, he could see that; there would be no side-stepping the issue with witty banter or some other, more sensual form of dissuasion._

_He tipped her chin up to meet her eyes. “Your physicists have untangled some of the great truths of the universe. One of those is simple – energy cannot be created or destroyed. The same is true with life energy.”_

_“You’re saying you’re just…energy? What, like a ghost?”_

_“Life energy.” His fingertips dipped to her chest, resting there. “The same energy, the same life that flows through you. If, perhaps, a little…stronger.”_

_“So, we…humans…we’re like angels.”_

_He smiled. “Is it not written that God created Man in His own image?”_

_“In the Bible, yeah, but…” She faltered, unsure of where to go._

_“Perhaps not with two arms and two legs.” He reached down to grasped her hands, raising them to his lips to gently kiss her knuckles, “but as they say, in the same spirit.” The corners of his mouth curled up mischievously._

_Charlotte shook her head. “That’s terrible. You should stay away from puns.”_

_“I’ve obviously been among you humans for too long.”_

_“You obviously are trying to get out of committing to a concrete answer.” Her hand went up to the side of his face. “I’m not trying to pry or get any cosmic secrets out of you, I’m just trying to understand you better. If I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you…” She watched a shadow of concern darken his face. “What? What is it?”_

_“You have such faith in us._

_“And you don’t?”_

_His brow furrowed even deeper. “How will we do it? How do we plan this future when we must keep our love hidden from everyone, including our son? We meet in secret, we hide, because of what others will think, will say. That is not a marriage, it is an assignation, a tryst.”_

_She draped her arms around him again, laying her head on his chest. “I don’t know how we’ll do it, but we will. We have to, you said it yourself, this is what your Father wanted.” She looked up at him. “I’m not worried about us, we’ll work it out. The one I’m worried about is Alex.”_

_“Because of the relationship he and I have?” He brushed her cheek with his thumb. “Or shall I say, lack thereof?”_

_“He has to learn to accept you, and he will…someday. No, I’m more concerned about what he’s doing with his life. I feel like he’s drifting along without a true purpose.”_

_“He has been working with Michael, training and trying to unfold the mysteries of the markings from Father.”_

_“Yes, that’s good. And he’s helping to rebuild Vega, yes, and Vega is important, but so are Helena and New Haven and anywhere else we can find people. Right now, he’s fixing walls and settling trade disputes – I can’t believe that’s his real calling.”_

_“He must choose his own path, whatever that may be. The Prophecy says that Alex will either save or destroy mankind.”_

_“I know.” She shook her head in irritation. “The damned Prophecy. Not much pressure to put on a young man, only the fate of all humanity.”_

_Gabriel mulled this over for a while. He understood all too well the burden that his Father could put upon a young man, even a young child._

_Charlotte noticed his silence, the unease written across his features. “What are you thinking?” When he did not answer, she pressed him further. “Gabriel, what are you afraid of?”_

_“We all assume that Alex will choose to do the right thing when the time comes. What if the choice is not that simple?”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“I know that Michael has tried to guide him on his path, but there are some things that cannot be overcome.”_

_“Like what?”_

_“To ‘save or to destroy,’ those are his choices, that is the prophecy. What if his destiny is not determined so much by prophecy but by something else? Think of it this way – who are his parents? You, who has created a place for thousands to live, to hide. You saved these people, you are the savior.”_

_She turned away from him, frowning. “No, that was Colonel Andrews.”_

_“Colonel Andrews did not nearly die to save Alex when he was an infant.”_

_Her arms wrapped around herself protectively; she didn’t like where this was going. “Are you saying then that you are the ‘destroyer’?”_

_He looked at her seriously. “You know that I am. I will not deny it. I will say that I was manipulated into the act, but nonetheless I have six billion lives to answer for. This is what I am afraid of, that Alex could be tricked, that he could think that he is doing the right thing, when in reality it will lead to the end of mankind. I know only too well how easily it can be done.”_

_“We can’t let that happen.” She looked into Gabriel’s eyes, saw the guilt he carried, guilt he would carry for a hundred thousand millennia. She couldn’t allow her son to feel the same. “We can’t let Alex be used like you were.”_

_“I agree, but I doubt he will listen to my lessons. You and Michael need to steer his way.”_

_She laid her palms on his bare chest. “You’re his father. One of these days, Alex is going to acknowledge that. Maybe not right away, but he will. He’s a good person, and he’s going to see the good in you.”_

_Gabriel twined his arms around her again, drawing her in tighter, tucking her head into his shoulder, feeling the warmth of her body against his. She had such faith, in him, in their son, in the future. He had lost his faith twenty-five years before, when his Father had abandoned him and all their kind on this rather mundane little planet. All he had been left with was the hope that he could find the magic combination of acts that would bring Father back, that would restore things to the way they were._

_Now, he knew that things were never going to be that way again. Some days he wondered if Father was ever going to return. Instead of that hope, however, he had the knowledge that he had as least some control over his future, that he and Michael and Alex and Charlotte could fight against Lucifer and create their own destinies here on Earth. Win or lose, if Father never returned, well, at least they would have tried._

Gabriel woke slowly, not wanting to leave the dream. No, not just a dream, much of it was memory, the memory of one special night. He’d expected to spend many more nights with Charlotte, making love until the dawn, holding her as the sun rose on a new day, fighting side-by-side with her against the eight-balls, against Lucifer, against Fate itself.

He turned to his side, wincing with residual pain. The sun streamed through the windows, through fine lace curtains he would have never thought she would have picked for her own. His eyes wandered around the room once more, seeing the details he had missed in the dark. The quilt that would have hung on the rack lay over him, a collage of different fabrics, lovingly hand stitched. The china basin on the dresser had been emptied sometime during the night and a fresh towel lay next to it, a delicate rose pink. The mirror above was timeworn and tarnished around the edges but it had the same old-world feeling as the other items in the room. 

He could see the painting now, set in an overly-gilt frame that would have been more at home in a museum than a bedroom. It was a picture of a child, a little boy, not much more than a toddler, looking out the window into the sunlight beyond. Beside him, a dog sat patiently waiting for his next adventure, waiting with his best friend.

The little boy in the painting was turned away but Gabriel could see the side of his head, the sun-kissed cheek, the tiny, turned-up nose, the tousled blond hair.

Short, blond curls, just like Alex would have had.

Commander Jenkins had called the meeting for first thing the next day. No angels, no outsiders (that was another issue that would have to be dealt with.) There was much to go over – scouting reports, follow-up statements regarding their mission to Vega, updates on the state of New Haven, the refinery and the other villages. The various Tribunals did a good job of taking care of the day-to-day functioning of the patchwork network of farms and businesses and homes that formed the backbone of the Wildcats community, but since the very first, since the days of Colonel Andrews, there had always been a guiding military presence. One Commander-in-Chief who oversaw it all.

And now that one was a certain Malcolm James Jenkins.

He sat at the head of the conference table, uncomfortable as all hell. This wasn’t his chair, it wasn’t his place, his place was to the right, and Charlotte should have been sitting here. 

It was obvious that he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. To a person, the group assembled looked strained, shocked and soul-weary. No one had sat in his old place. The chair sat empty, like a silent indictment of all that had gone wrong.

Jenkins leaned forward and rubbed his face, feeling his hand rasp along his unshaven cheek. He’d been letting himself go lately, too caught up in the shit storm that seemed to follow the archangels and the Chosen One wherever they went. That would have to change – he needed to put on a display of command for his people no matter what. Just for today, however, he would let things slide.

“I know that this is difficult for everyone,” he started. “We’re all grieving, and on top of that, we’re being thrown into a situation that we know very little about. We have one thing to be proud of – we did what we set out to do in Vega – we thwarted that damn dyad’s plans and Commander Lannon’s son is safe, at least for today.

“Charlotte was willing to give her life for him, she was willing to give her life for all of us, and that’s why we have to go on, to finish the mission, to protect not only the Chosen One, but the rest of the people left on Earth. You know that she would never have turned down a plea for help; whether people know they need help or not, we’re going to give it to them, because that’s what the Wildcats have always been about.” 

He paused and took a sip of the hot chicory root “coffee” that he’d taken to drinking. The memory of those few cups of tea he’d had with Charlotte were even more precious now. “I know that working with the archangels, especially with Gabriel, seems wrong, but we’re fighting a different war now. We need to work together. Commander Lannon saw that, I see it, and I hope you will, too. This isn’t a war we can win on our own. If you have a problem with that, I need to know now. I will _not_ have a repeat of what happened last night.” He looked up at the faces around him, at Miravich and Jelovic and Smith and Crothers, a handful of others, and of course, Mouse. His seasoned veterans, his council of war. 

No one spoke.

“All right then. Let’s get the preliminaries over with so we can get down to planning this escapade. Miravich, what else do you have to report?”

The discussions went on for another hour. Only half of the group that had gone to Vega had returned; they’d left four squads behind to assist with training and defense. Three soldiers were recovering from injuries, still in the hospital there, but they would be fine and rejoin their brethren as soon as they were able. 

Miravich had left her troops in New Delphi as a peacekeeping force, but fewer and fewer were needed. It seemed that the eight-ball occupants were fleeing the underground city like proverbial rats while the remaining human occupants were remarkably placid. There was little need for the over 300 soldiers originally deployed there now.

Locally, the harvest was well underway. The summer weather had been fair, the rains plentiful but not inundating, and the crops had come in well. Ironically, they were taking longer to bring in than usual due to the bounty.

Jenkins sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He listened with half an ear while the crop estimates were reeled out. It was important information but he’d always struggled to pay attention to these details, the domestic aspects of the overall community. He’d have to work on that, this was his responsibility, too.

When Crothers had finished his report, the commander sat up straight. “That sounds good, sounds like we’ll be well set up for the winter. Alright, anything else we need to go over?”

Wondering glances found no one willing to step forward. The tension in the room ran up another notch.

“Then let’s talk about what we’re really here for. Mouse?” He motioned over to the tiny captain who handed him a large, rolled paper. Rising from his chair, he spread the map out on the table. “According to Michael, this is our objective.” He pointed to an area not far north of the Bay of Mobile, in what had previously been called Alabama. “It’s a little town called Mallory. Farm community, about 12 miles from the ocean, nice area. The funny thing about it – it’s protected from the eight-balls by some kind of force. The people there think its divine aid, but the archangels are pretty sure it’s just the opposite.” He looked up, completely aware of how far-fetched the idea seemed. “They think it’s their fallen brother, Lucifer.”

“Right,” Jelovic said incredulously. “Lucifer, as in the Devil. I know you told that to the townies, but you’re not actually serious.”

Jenkins nodded. “I am. I think we’ve all learned not to take our previous notions of angels and demons at face value anymore – I know I’ve seen way too much to go back to the stories I was told as a child. That said, I think we can put Lucifer firmly on the side of ‘evil,’ if you will. He might be saving this town of Mallory, for who knows what reason, but he’s been asking for sacrifices, human sacrifices. It’s all couched in religious mumbo-jumbo but in the end, its people getting killed.

“On top of that atrocity, it seems that he was the one who was really after Alex Lannon this whole time. We may have taken down Julian and his merry band but the dyad was strictly an intermediary. Lucifer wants the Chosen One for his own purposes, and I doubt those are in the best interest of humanity.”

Jelovic shook his head. “We’re going to war against Satan.”

“Yes, we are. But at least this time, we’ve got two archangels on our side.”

“Do you really think that’s going to be enough?” This time it was Crothers. 

“No, I don’t. We can’t fight them from here, we’re too far away to have any kind of rapid response; that means an expeditionary force. At the same time, the Commander made a promise to the people of Helena to help them, and we can’t abandon Vega, they’re just beginning to get back on their feet.” Jenkins sighed. He’d been battling this decision all the way back from Vega. “I don’t see any other choice. We’ll have to call up full mobilization.”

No one said anything as they stared at each other across the table. Finally, Mouse spoke up. “Sir, we haven’t had full mobilization in eight years.”

“I know that. People aren’t going to be happy.” Jenkins set his hands on his thighs and looked around the table. “But they really aren’t going to be happy if their families are dead or Lucifer wins this war. We’ve gotten rather complacent, safe in our homes, pulling a few raids here and there while our brothers and sisters are out there on the front lines. We’ve done too damn good of a job hiding and that’s got to change. 

“As far as Helena and Vega are concerned, well, we’re all in this together, and it’s time that we start thinking that way again. This is what we’ve been training for, what Colonel Andrews and the Commander planned for from the beginning – swift reaction, rapid deployment. I say we’re the best fighting force on the planet right now. It’s our turn to step up, not just for ourselves, but for everyone.”

There was a moment of tight anticipation, then heads began to nod, first one, then two, then the rest of the group. Jenkins let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. The support of his command staff would go a long way when it came to the attitude of the rest of the troops.

“Alright then, let’s get to it,” he said. “Miravich, I imagine you’ve got an idea of what you’ll need in Helena.”

The commander pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket of her pants. “I may have put a little something together, sir.”

Jenkins mouth curled up in the corner. He was sure that the “little something” was a fully fleshed out plan for the relocation and protection of all of Helena’s people. Miravich was good that way but that she’d already considered the operation was even more encouraging. Another sign that he wasn’t in this alone. “Good work. Let’s go over that later. Crothers, I’m going to put you in charge of defenses here. We may be taking half the population with us, but we’re not going to leave our homes vulnerable while we’re gone. 

Crothers let out an audible sigh of relief. His wife had just had a baby and they all knew it. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Between three a.m. feedings and keeping all of this together, you’re going to be one cranky s.o.b. I pity anyone that decides to try to attack you.”

They all laughed. Commander Lannon had always had a way of releasing the inevitable tension that arose in situations like this and Jenkins had learned that lesson from her. War was deadly serious but a little humor could go a long way toward making a situation less overwhelming. They were at war again, this time with a new, possibly more powerful enemy, one they knew even less about, and without Charlotte Lannon. This was going to be different; Jenkins would have to use all of his skill as a soldier and as a commander.

“Then there’s only one thing left to decide,” he continued, “and I want everyone’s input. I’d like to deploy two regiments, a full brigade to meet Lucifer and whatever he’s got planned. We’ve got to be ready for anything, we have to be prepared for a both a blitzkrieg and a drawn-out campaign. I’ve been looking at places to act as FBO. I’m sure you know that we’ve been sending out scouts and reports are back. We’ve got a couple of choices but one stands out.” His hand swept over the map and moved up across Alabama. His finger finally rested on one spot, tapping it lightly.

“Huntsville?” asked Jelovic, the infantry commander.

“Redstone Arsenal, to be more specific,” his commander corrected. “They used to call it the Pentagon South – it was used for things like the Army Materiel Command, Aviation and Missile Command, Space & Missile Defense Command, even training and development centers for the FBI and ATF. There may be some rockets still there, who knows, but more importantly, it’s a military base, and it has reinforced areas that we may need to use. There may also be some ordnance and munitions, we can look. It’s about 350 miles away from Mallory, still close enough that we could deploy from there if we needed to.”

“What’s the condition?”

A gravelly voice joined in. “Not bad. I rerouted a scout group to check it out.” This was Smith, a burly Southerner, currently in charge of Advanced Recon. “Plenty of administration buildings, industrial buildings, couple of bunkers for testing, so we’re talking lots of concrete and brick. Housing is nearby, the normal single-family stuff we can check out. Altogether minimal damage from weather, time and the elements on the base itself. We’ve concentrated on the northern section for now, there should be enough places to make camp. Overall, the place is pretty big, over 900 buildings, we can spread out as necessary, and there should be good opportunity for S&R. Scouts only saw one or two eight-balls in the general area, so it doesn’t seem to be a very active nesting spot. I think the distance from Mallory may be an advantage – too far to really keep a good eye on. We’re a helluva lot more mobile than they are.”

“How are the roads?”

“Fair. We’ve got a couple of old freeways to work with, bridges are iffy but there’s a network of county highways,” Smith continued. “There’s about eighteen different ways to get from here to there. At least one or two of them will be clear enough.”

Jenkins looked around. “Does anyone have any other input?”

Jelovic spoke up. “Birmingham is a wreck; it looks like a bomb went off. I was there a couple years ago for Commander Lannon. We’ll have to skirt the city to get down to Mallory.”

“They used to have a lot of explosives for mining and construction,” Smith said. “My grandpa was on a road crew down there years ago. He used to tell me all sorts of stories about that, blasting through mountains and the like. Maybe somebody got creative and tried to blow the eight-balls up.”

Jelovic nodded. “A little overkill if you ask me. Nothing much left of the whole city. It’s too bad, we could have used it for a base – it’s closer to Mallory.”

“We’ll need to work out the bypass.” Jenkins glanced at the head of his mechanized division, then around the rest of the assembled group. “Does anyone have anything else to add? Any objections to using the Arsenal?”

There was a murmur of discussion but nothing louder. After a minute, Jenkins raised his voice again. “It’s settled, then.” He looked at Smith. “When can you have the Triple-Deuce ready to go?”

The remains of the Triple-Deuce (Second Battalion, Twenty-Second Regiment) had become the Advanced Reconnaissance group for the Wildcats, specializing in sweeping through an area, cleaning out hostiles and getting it ready for habitation. “Four hours, sir. We’re always ready.”

“Take twenty-four. I’d like to see you deploy tomorrow morning to secure the area, then have the rest of Twenty-Second’s Support, Operations, Medical and Communications arrive ASAP. I want to have at least eight battalions in Redstone Arsenal within ten days, we’ll work on filling in the rest. That will give us nearly two-thousand troops against God-only-knows-what, and from what I’ve heard, He’s not here to tell.”

Crothers shook his head. “Ten days? Half of these guys are still working the harvest.”

“I know. It’s not optimal, and logistics are going to be a nightmare, but we don’t have any idea what kind of time frame we’re working with so we need to move quickly. We’ll roll out in waves and run a continuous convoy, but we need to start immediately. Getting the jump on this may be the only advantage we have.”

The group of officers began filing out of the room, discussing in low tones among themselves. “Mouse,” Jenkins called out, “could you stay behind?”

The petite captain turned around and stood at attention. “Yes, sir?”

“Just a moment.” He waited while the rest of the group continued down the corridor, then closed the door. “At ease.”

Mouse eyed the exit with raised brow. This had to be serious – closed doors were pretty much verboten within the Wildcats administration. 

“I asked you to sit in on this meeting for a reason. I wanted to discuss something with you,” Jenkins started, unusually tentative. “Charlotte – Commander Lannon – thought quite a bit of your counsel.”

The young woman laughed. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t know why. The two of you taught me everything I know.”

Jenkins returned the smile. “Nevertheless, she had high regard for you. You’ve risen through the ranks quickly, on your own merit. You’re smart, you’re quick, and you don’t take jack from anyone.”

“Commander Lannon was kind enough to take an interest in me, sir. I only tried to pay her back.”

“I’d like to thank you for your help with Gabriel. I know that can’t have been easy for you, putting him between you and your mates.”

“He wasn’t any problem, sir.” She unconsciously rubbed her wrist. The bruises had turned a sickly green color, but the stiffness had mostly gone away. “I got to know him a little better. The archangels, they’re allies now, we need to treat them as such. As you said, my ‘mates’ as you call them are just going to have to learn that.”

The older man paused, a faraway look in his eyes. “The Tribunal wants to verify me as Commander-in-Chief is some kind of bullshit ceremony tomorrow. Before then, they want me to have my chain of command in place – I have to admit it’s not a bad idea. That means I’m going to need more people, especially with what we’re planning, people I can trust. I’ve decided to promote you to Commander, and I’d also like to make you my XO.”

The breath nearly exploded from Mouse’s chest and both her eyes and mouth opened wide. “Uh, um,” she stumbled. “Sir?”

He waited while she processed what he had said. It always struck him peculiar that a soldier could instantly respond to a life-and-death situation with the just the right tactics, but something like this, something personal, could throw them for a loop.

“With all due respect, sir,” she stammered out, then watched while he unsuccessfully tried to hide a grin. _That was strange_ , she thought to herself, but stumbled on. “With all due respect, there are plenty of people who are…are more qualified to be…than I am.”

“There are people with more experience, yes, but you are just as qualified.”

For a moment her head bowed. He leaned over to try to see her face; it was a long way down. “Mouse? What is it? I thought you’d be pleased.”

She looked up with a strange little smile. “Marissa. My name’s Marissa. And I am pleased, sir, I’m very pleased that you think that much of me. And I’ve wanted to make Commander for quite some time now. Just…not for the reasons you might imagine.”

Jenkins leaned back against the table and crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head a bit to the side. His mentor had taught him a little of the psychology that she had used to keep her troops in line; her favorite ploy had been simply waiting. He found it difficult, but useful. Then again, he didn’t mind a few seconds to try to figure out just where all this was going.

“You and Commander Lannon, you had protocol,” she continued. “I understand, I mean, there are rules for a reason. And you were really good about fraternization as long as it was within rank. I understand that, too; there just aren’t enough of us left to be _overly_ strict. That’s why I didn’t want to push things…not with a superior officer.”

Things were starting to make sense. “And you have your eyes on a particular commander.”

A blush rose in her cheeks that instantly transformed her from capable soldier to rather awkward and endearing young woman. “Yes, sir. For quite some time now. And if I were your XO, then, well...” she drew the word out expressively, “there would be problems again.”

“I see.” Jenkins rubbed his thumb across his mustache. _How had she done it_ , he asked himself, _how had Charlotte balanced it all – the necessity of command with the needs of all her people?_ They weren’t just soldiers, they were human beings, and nearly all that was left of the human race. Without discipline, they would surely perish, but without some regard for their personal lives, was it really worth living? He and Charlotte and Colonel Andrews had worked out the “macro,” the rules and regulations, and tried to fit them to their particular situation, but these, these “micro” decisions – he wasn’t sure that he was up to the task.

For perhaps the hundredth time in the last week, he desperately wished Charlotte was there.

“Mouse – Marissa,” he began, and he could see a fervent kind of hope in her eyes. “I understand your position, I really do. I remember those same feelings, and I don’t want to interfere with your life. But right now, I need you. I need your skills and your organization. If you’re really fond of this person, they’ll stick around. We can work something out when we’ve sorted this Lucifer business.”

A slow grin spread across her face and she bent her head and laughed softly. “Sir, you really are quite dense.”

“Excuse me?”

There was a pleasant sense of relief at having nowhere else to go, nothing left to hide. “Haven’t you learned anything in the last few weeks, sir? Life can be short, we have to grab happiness while we can.”

Of course, he knew that, everyone knew that, it was the reality they lived now. What was her point?

“I know how you felt about Commander Lannon, everyone knew.” Now it was Jenkin’s turn to blush, but she went on. “She’s gone now. You’re still here.”

He still didn’t know where she was going with all this talk and he felt a kind of childish frustration. She was poking at wounds not yet begun to heal, at feelings he’d not yet sorted through.

She closed the distance between them with small, hesitant steps. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Just the opposite. We’re all hurting, but you most of all. I know that.” She reached out and hesitantly took his fingers in hers. “I thought maybe…maybe I could help.”

It took more than one attempt to get the word out. “ _Me_?” he finally asked. “You’re talking about…me?”

She tightened her grip on his hand and brought it up until she held it close to her chest. “Is that so unbelievable? I think you’re the bravest, strongest, most caring person I’ve ever met. I also think you’re rather handsome.” She grinned again. “I even like your mustache.”

He stared at her in horror. “What’s wrong with my mustache?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Her eyes twinkled. “It’s very…you.”

He stepped back, pulling his hand away from hers. He hadn’t felt this flustered in a very long time. “I don’t know, this is all rather…sudden.”

“Because you’ve only had eyes for one person for the last 20 years.”

Damn, had he really been that transparent?

“But now, I think…” the young woman was still tentative. “I…I don’t think she’d mind.”

No, she wouldn’t, Charlotte wouldn’t mind at all, she’d be the first to tell him to live his life, to move on, to take a chance at real happiness.

_Why did it have to all be so messy?_

He shook his head. “I can’t think of myself right now, not now. I have to be concerned with what we’re facing. We’re at war again, Mouse, and we don’t even know who the enemy is. Hell, we barely know our allies.”

“I understand.” She really couldn’t expect him to be anything other than himself – his people, his troops and his mission, they would come first. They always had. “You’ll need a XO, sir. If you want my counsel, as you said, I would suggest Jacobs. She’s more than qualified.”

“I’ve already picked my XO.”

“But, sir –”

He cut her off before she could continue. “I want the best. For me, an XO needs to follow orders but they also need to be able to stand on their own, stand up for their opinions, challenge their commander if they feel it necessary. I think you calling me ‘dense’ perfectly qualifies you for the position.”

“But, sir!”

“Malcolm,” he gently corrected. “My name is Malcolm, and maybe I’m not as dense as you think. You’re right, Charlotte and I had a very special working relationship, perhaps more so because of those feelings we didn’t talk about. Maybe I picked you for exactly those reasons, because whether I realized it or not, I saw someone else that I could forge that same kind of unique bond with.”

“I respect that, but to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to ‘not talk about things’ for twenty years. That’s not my style.”

“No, it isn’t.” He looked down at her, a tiny, fiercely devoted woman. He was sure that she would be just as passionate, just as caring. The gift was almost too much to imagine. He brushed a strand of hair off of her face. “I’m not asking you to, I’m merely asking you to give this old man some time to get used to the idea.”

She smiled softly at his self-deprecation. “I can do that. Malcolm.” It felt a little odd to say his name, but not bad. It was a good name. She’d get used to it.

“Then, Commander, I say we get to work. We have quite a bit to do.”

Commander. 

She’d get used to that, too.

_Phase One - Operation Ragnarök_

Out of both necessity and training, the Wildcats had become experts in covert deployment. They had traversed much of the northeastern portion of the continent, searching for survivors, for supplies, for weapons, for the enemy. They had become adept at moving under cover of darkness, slipping from one spot of camouflage to another, staying out of sight and out of battle. Over the decades, enemy engagements had become fewer and farther between – unless that happened to be the purpose of the trip. They’d cleared out more than a few nests of eight-balls, widening the “safe zone” around New Haven and the other camps for hundreds of miles.

It helped that they had military technology left over from their original base – that and what they scrounged up, always a priority. The drones, the night-vision goggles, the portable radar – all of it made their jobs just a little bit easier, just a little bit safer. As much as New Haven had reverted to an agrarian society that could very well fit into the early 1900’s, the Wildcats were still a 21st century military machine.

So it was with this mindset that they set off for Redstone Arsenal – a never-ending convoy loop of fuel trucks, tractor-trailers, cargo vans, buses, armored personnel carriers, pick-ups and SUV’s moving people, equipment and the various materiel of war. It helped that stealth was no longer an issue – the war with Gabriel was over now and no one cared if they were seen or heard, especially as Gabriel himself was flying overhead in support. Still, they took multiple routes and were accompanied by armed troops. It never paid to be careless; neither the people nor the tech could easily be replaced.

Jenkins and his staff arrived three days after the Triple Deuce had secured the Arsenal. He was happy to see that his soldiers had already done much to get things organized. The entire base had been quickly but efficiently scanned for inhabitants and found deserted by both eight-balls and humans. Recon had then established a command center in the sturdiest (and cleanest) of the buildings and worked to set up a barracks nearby. As the commander strolled around his newest headquarters of operations, he was quite pleased. In another day they would have generators in place, lights and power and perhaps even running water. This place had been a good choice and his soldiers were doing a fine job.

The convoy continued to move back and forth between New Haven and the base, shuttling two hundred people at a time. Jenkins watched as his squads gathered into platoons, then grew to battalions and companies. Men and women, ages 16 to 60, all of them well-trained, eager yet disciplined. It would take over a week for everyone to arrive, but that gave them more time to organize, to plan, and perhaps even reconnoiter the enemy camp.

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 9_

_Redstone Arsenal_

Commander Marissa Mastroianni squinted up into the pale light of the early morning, bleary-eyed and still half-asleep. An aged and yellowed folder pressed into her cheek, bent uncomfortably where it wedged between her face and the sweatshirt she used as a pillow.

In the far distance, she heard the bugle call of reveille. 

_Shit! How late was it?_

She sat up suddenly, sending a cascade of papers onto the floor. Last night she had been reading much too late and had fallen asleep surrounded by manifests and bills of lading and packing slips and god-only-knew-what else. Paperwork. Information. Information about purchases and shipments, information that Commander Jenkins wanted reviewed ASAP, mountains of information that needed to be threshed though like wheat, sorting out the tiny grains of actual data from the piles of worthless chaff.

She was, literally, surrounded by it.

It boggled the mind – wasn’t everything supposed to be kept on computers back then? Perhaps, but it would seem that everything was also kept on paper, reams and reams and reams of paper, and it was her job to look through it all. She was on an exceedingly boring treasure hunt, trying to pry hints and clues out of the rows and rows of filing cabinets and storage boxes, whatever might lead to secret caches of munitions, unfound ordnance, anything useful that had not been looted or destroyed by time. 

For a moment, she sat on the edge of the cot, allowing herself the luxury of a long yawn, a wide stretch and a heavy sigh while her startled heartrate returned to normal. She had a to-do list about four pages long as well as the pile of folders still on the floor to finish reading through; a minute was not going to make a difference to how long her day was going to be. She glanced at her boots at the end of the bed and debated whether to wear a fresh pair of socks or not – laundry detail wouldn’t be up and running for another day or so, not until _she_ signed off on the project. 

Almost all of the other cots were empty. She sighed again; she must have been dead to the world to miss everyone getting up and leaving around her. Thoughts of getting a decent meal at the canteen were quashed, she had to get back to C&C and start on today’s pile of chaff.

“Be my XO, he said,” she mumbled as she pulled on her pants, yesterday’s socks and her boots. “I want the best, he said.” 

She ran a comb through her dark hair without the luxury of a mirror, stood and picked up the folders scattered around the cot. 

“Face it, Mouse,” she said aloud, “you’re a sucker for a man in uniform.”

Soon after Jenkins had arrived at the Arsenal, he had made it a policy to take a regular tour of the ever-expanding area of occupation, seeing what his troops had found on the old base, what they had done to convert the abandoned buildings into the necessary storage and bunkers. Written and even oral reports could not come close to detailing the amazing work that was being done in rehabilitating the huge complex. An airplane hangar had been cleaned out to hold vehicles, a rocket silo would store fuel. The primary school was being converted into a barracks, as was a large, surprisingly dry indoor swimming pool, now filled with row upon row of rudimentary cots. Each day found him more and more impressed with his people’s ingenuity and resourcefulness.

The commander had started the habit of hiking the perimeter of the base morning and afternoon, seeing for himself the rapid changes from one day to the next. That these hour-long walkabouts were a welcome respite from the drudgery of charts, maps and lists was a happy coincidence. 

Or so he told himself.

This morning he had scheduled a “walking conference” with Michael, Gabriel and Alex. The trio had recently arrived on site (even though Jenkins was fairly sure that he had seen at least one of the archangels in the air high above the base more than once over the last week) and he thought this would be a good opportunity to bring them up to speed.

Although Jenkins considered both Michael and Gabriel to be essentially on par with him as far as military command, their tactical expertise a valuable asset and one he would never have turned down, the running of the base was solely his purview. Taking a stroll around the base was a perfect way to both keep the archangels involved as well as subtly demonstrate his role in this particular adventure.

He had noticed early on that Michael was more patient when it came to the necessary civilities of the modern military – meetings, meetings and more meetings – but Gabriel had little time for them. Jenkins could sympathize; he had always considered himself to be more of a “doer” than a “planner,” but his new position forced him into much more of the second job than the first. Again, the wisdom of the “walking conference”; the simple act of movement did much to soothe Gabriel’s restless spirit.

Then there was Alex. While Captain Alex Lannon had been in the military for years, used to the structure of command and assignment, here the Chosen One seemed a bit like a third wheel, the little brother following the grown-ups around trying to insert himself into the action. 

Not that the action was very exciting right now. 

Nonetheless, Alex appeared as impressed with the rehabilitation of the Arsenal as Jenkins was. In just a few days, the Wildcats had turned a collection of dilapidated and abandoned buildings into a reasonable facsimile of a military base. Jeeps ran back and forth and platoons marched across the tarmac, flattening the weeds and grass that had sought a foothold over the last two decades. If one ignored the peeling paint and the occasional collapsed wall, it was almost possible to believe that the base had never been decommissioned.

The group walked at a quick pace from a newly organized weapons depot to one of the old hangars that had been converted into a garage. Jenkins waved his arms at some of the equipment that had recently arrived.

“I’ve got two squads going out today,” the commander explained, pointing at a pair of JLTV prototypes that had been brought down on a tractor-trailer. “We found those puppies up at the factory in Oshkosh – they’d never even been out of the building. Absolutely pristine. That was a good day.” He grinned expansively. “Picked up a firetruck, too.”

The Wildcats’ penchant for salvage could be seen all over the base. The hangar-garage was gradually filling with every sort of vehicle imaginable, everything from a Honda motorcycle to a Mack truck. Most of them had been modified with weaponry and defense systems, but behind the steel plates and turrets, the angels could see the familiar yellow of a school bus or the faded decorations of an ice cream truck.

“I’m sending out part of the Triple-Deuce to scout the way south. We need to know what roads are open and what to expect.”

“I’m sure Lucifer is aware of our movements.” Michael glanced warily at the ice cream truck – he’d had a bad experience with one of those early in the war. “He’ll be waiting.”

“I’m sure he is. That’s exactly why I’m sending Advanced Recon through first. We need to know what’s in store for us on the ride. If we can eliminate the surprises early, we can get to our destination intact. I’d rather save the real fighting for Mallory, not for the trip down.”

“Gabriel and I can assist with scouting from overhead,” Michael offered. 

“I’m going to be in and out for the next few days,” Gabriel countered. “There are some things I’d like to get done prior to meeting up with our long-lost brother.”

Michael and Jenkins both gave him a curious look while Alex simply stared, but Gabriel refused to elaborate. “Side projects,” was all he was willing to say. Michael let the matter go – Gabriel had been emotionally better off after Charlotte’s death than he had expected; he was willing to give his brother a little latitude.

“If you’re going to be flying in and out, we’d best let security know.” Jenkins took a hard right around the corner of a building, heading for a low cement-block building that had sprouted a number of new antennae. “I don’t want them taking you out with a SAM accidentally. We’ll set up call signs for the radio.”

Although Gabriel was less than pleased that he would need to wear the dreaded earpiece again, he nodded his assent. “As long as you don’t saddle me with something dreadful like ‘Beagle’ or “Patches.’”

Jenkins laughed out loud. “Where in the hell did you get those from?”

The archangel shrugged. He was loathe to admit that there had been a time that he’d spent watching old war movies while his actual war was at a standstill. He’d called it “research” to his retinue, not that they had believed him. In truth, he simply enjoyed watching things blow up, whether in reality or through special effects. It was…cathartic.

“We can go old-school and call you Falcon.” Jenkins turned toward Michael. “And you’ll be Eagle.”

The name reminded Alex all too clearly of the codeword that his mother had set for the hostage-rescue simulation. It had only been a few weeks ago – it seemed like ages.

They were just arriving at the cinderblock security building when the doors burst opened and a half-dozen men poured out, all of them in full gear and weapons ready. Jenkins pulled up short and barked out a quick demand for explanation.

The sergeant in charge snapped a peremptory salute. “Patrol found a civilian, sir, outside the perimeter. They’re bringing them up to the gate now.”

Jenkins released the soldier to catch up with his comrades. This was the first contact they had had with anyone not directly involved with the Wildcat operation at Redstone. “Shall we go see who it is?”

The entrance to the compound was only 500 feet away but the perimeter patrol had already arrived. The old drop-top Jeep pulled up alongside the makeshift gate and three figures climbed out. Two were in the drab uniform of the Wildcats, the black patches visible on their arms. The third, however, was less formally dressed, jeans tucked into a pair of cowboy boots, a loose white blouse. She leaned heavily on the arms of the two soldiers, her dark head bowed.

Michael halted, stunned. Gabriel noticed immediately. “What is it?”

His twin stood with his mouth open, unable to speak. He turned wide, unbelieving eyes onto his brother. Still no words came forth.

“Michael?” Gabriel glanced quickly between him and the gate. “What?”

Instead of answering, Michael turned and ran, pushing his way through the guards, heedless of their shouts. Gabriel, Jenkins and Alex could only hurry to follow.

When they caught up with him, they found Michael cradling the limp form of a woman. She had collapsed into his arms as soon as he had reached her. 

“What have you done to her?” Michael demanded.

The driver of the Jeep shook his head defensively. “Nothing, sir! She said she was really tired, said she’d been walking for a while. She was all alone, didn’t look like an eight-ball. That’s why we brought her up.”

The woman’s head lifted on a wobbly neck, her hands gripping the archangel’s shirt. “Michael?” Her voice was barely audible. “Is it…?”

That was the extent of her remaining energy and she wilted once against his chest. With purposeful ease, he slipped his arm beneath her legs and lifted her up off the ground. “She needs medical attention.”

Jenkins made an instantaneous decision – Michael obviously knew the woman. “Take her straight to the infirmary; get her whatever care she needs. Use the Jeep.” His lips tightened into a thin line. “We’ll…talk to her…later.”

Michael hesitated for only a moment and then climbed into the vehicle, the woman little more than a featherweight in his arms. He cradled her close as the driver scrambled in behind the wheel and immediately drove off. 

The commander turned toward Gabriel and Alex. “You mind telling me what that was all about?”

Gabriel’s eyes followed the Jeep as it sped across the lot, a ridge of concern creasing his brow. “I have no idea,” he growled, “but I’m certainly going to find out.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 9 continued_

Gabriel leaned with feigned nonchalance against the doorframe of the makeshift hospital ward. The former conference room had been filled with rows of cots instead of chairs and tables, boxes of medical supplies instead of whiteboards and projectors, but it was clean and bright and felt like a good place, especially for something as necessary as healing.

Only one of the cots was being used now, in the furthest row, back in the corner near a window where the sun dappled in through the trees outside. An old oak office chair had been pulled up next to it and it too, was occupied. Gabriel watched the two figures from his vantage point across the long room, his brow furrowed, belying his casual air.

Finally, Michael rose from the chair and moved to the doorway. His shoulders were slumped and his head low, he looked deep in concentration.

“How is she doing?” Gabriel interrupted his thoughts. “Will she be alright?”

“She’s asleep right now. The doctors think its only exhaustion, dehydration. She should come ‘round soon. They’re going to perform their tests now. It might be a while.”

Gabriel tried to get a glimpse of his twin’s expression but all he could see was the top of Michael’s bowed head. “She knew you, brother, knew you well.”

“Yes. Her name is Laurel.”

“You’ve neglected to enlighten me about this woman before.” He paused, noting his brother’s continued lack of reaction. “Not that either of us has been exactly in the sharing mood lately. I’ll borrow one of your lines – who is she?”

When Michael finally looked up, his blue eyes were serious. “You told me once that I didn’t understand what it meant to be shattered, to have someone who can heal you. I understand all too well. No long ago, you tried to destroy me, to drive me mad with rage. You nearly succeeded.”

Gabriel dropped his gaze. “I’ll admit, not one of my finer hours.”

“After I killed Becca, I…I nearly killed Alex.” Michael’s voice cracked with the strength of the memory. “I fled Vega; it was the only thing I could think to do. It was then that I found the town of Mallory. Laurel was there, she took me in, she healed me, she made me whole again. She soothed the rage that burned within me like a balm to my soul, she focused the wild parts of my heart so that I could once again see my purpose. She restored my faith.”

Gabriel’s brow rose just a bit. “It would seem she restored more than that.”

Finally, a soft smile stole across the other angel’s features. 

“You remind me too much of myself, Michael.” The look on Gabriel’s face was both sad and sweet, and the way his eyes crinkled in the corners was especially endearing. “Best you watch out for this infection of the heart.”

The tone was light, but Michael could see the pain behind his brother’s words, behind his expression. He watched as Gabriel’s fingers mindlessly trace the knot patterns on the leather breastplate of his armor, the same pattern that had been etched into Charlotte’s wedding band. There was risk in loving a human, a mortal, a risk Gabriel knew all too well. 

More than a risk. “You know what the problem is.”

“The child.” Gabriel nodded. “Yes. I could only sense the heartbeat, good and strong. But that means nothing.”

“How do I do it? How do I tell her that she’s carrying a monster?”

“Or how do you live with the fact she’s having another man’s child?” Gabriel countered. “There’s no winning this battle, Michael.”

“She’s a good woman, Gabriel. I don’t want to hurt her.”

“And I don’t want her to hurt you.”

Michael shook his head. “That isn’t her nature.”

Gabriel was unconvinced. He could already see the agony of doubt that was tearing at Michael’s heart, one he knew only too well. 

He rested his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Let the doctor’s do their work. We’ll soon enough have to face what’s to come.”

An hour later, Gabriel found himself once again on watch at the door to the hospital ward. He stood with arms crossed, one shoulder propped against the wall, nearly statue-like in his concentration.

Alex walked up beside him. He tipped his head toward Michael, standing near the windows on the other side of the room. “Has he been there the whole time?”

Gabriel gave a derisive snort. “Michael perfected ‘hovering’ long ago, even without the use of his wings.”

“I heard her name was Laurel.” The young man scuffed his boot on the linoleum floor. “I guess they knew each other before. Michael never really talked about her. At least not to me.”

Gabriel could hear the hurt in his son’s voice. He understood – Alex thought of Michael as more than a guardian, more than an “uncle.” The Chosen One thought that his relationship was such that he would have been told about someone this special.

“Don’t feel badly,” Gabriel consoled, finally tearing his gaze away from the pair. “He’s barely mentioned her to me and I’m his damn twin. From what I’ve gleaned, they met when Michael was in Mallory. I certainly didn’t think things had gotten quite this serious.”

Alex looked from the room back to his father. “What do you mean, serious?”

Gabriel chuckled softly; when it came to matters regarding Michael, Alex could be a little blind. The side effects of hero worship and familial love – there were worse things. Gabriel had to admit to himself he was a bit jealous.

“Did you notice what Michael did when he saw her? He _ran_ to her. Michael doesn’t run. He saunters, he strides meaningfully, he even rushes with purpose, but he rarely _runs,_ and if so, it is usually away from some unexpected disaster, not toward something, especially not some _one_. Michael is too deliberate to do something as rash as run; I haven’t seen him do it in millennia.”

“But he recognized her.”

“Exactly my point. It shook him, seeing her. Seeing her here.”

Alex chewed this over for a bit. “More went on between them in Mallory than we thought.”

Gabriel had to hold back an explosive laugh. “That’s an understatement. She’s heavy with child.”

The news physically stunned the young man. He fell back against the other side of the doorframe, flabbergasted. “It’s – I thought – but…”

“We don’t know the father, that’s the cruelty of it.” Gabriel’s eyes cast back across the room, at his brother, at a time in the past. “Michael has reason to be concerned. He’s having the doctors check her, check the baby. He’s worried its…wrong.”

“Nephilim.” Alex blew out a breath. “Yeah, I know, he told me about them. Why he could never have children, why I was so special, because I wasn’t…wrong. What if the baby’s okay?”

“There’s the rub – if the baby is normal, if it’s human…”

“…then the baby isn’t Michael’s.”

“Exactly. He won’t know for sure until she awakens, when Laurel tells him the truth. I’ve been in his situation before, lost in those traitorous thoughts. I would not wish them on anyone.”

Alex watched his father for a minute, watched the old emotions play over the archangel’s features: the hurt, the guilt, the regret. It was a strange feeling knowing that he’d been the cause of it, the reason for those painful memories. He hadn’t even been born yet – hell, from what he’d figured out he’d been little more than a cluster of cells – but Lucifer had been able to manipulate Gabriel’s deep-seated fears, his growing disdain for the human race, and convince him that the woman he loved was carrying another man’s child.

The same idea that was undoubtedly running through Michael’s head right now.

Alex couldn’t imagine how his uncle was feeling. Gabriel could be enigmatic at times, but Michael was almost a locked box when it came to his emotions. Very few had been gifted with his affection, even a smile an uncommon thing. Alex was one of the privileged ones whom Michael had ever really shown the depth of his love; the archangel’s tears were rare, precious and heartbreaking.

Now he could almost sense Michael’s emotions building beneath the calm surface, roiling like a hot spring, ready to explode at any moment and burn anyone nearby. 

A middle-aged man with captain’s bars on his collar and a stethoscope around his neck walked out of the ward with Michael and motioned them all down the hallway to a more private area. The two archangels followed, Alex taking up the rear, the sense of apprehension growing with each step.

The doctor focused his remarks toward Michael. “I’ve completed my exam of Laurel as you asked; however, I’m not sure if I have the results that you wanted. Laurel herself is exhausted, she’s been through a lot in the last few days, but with a little rest, she and the baby will be fine. 

“We found some equipment in one of the other buildings that was in pretty good shape and I was able to do an ultrasound. I had to come up with an alternative to the usual gel but we found something that worked. When she was awake, Laurel was cooperative and interested in what we were doing, she understood that we were concerned about her health and the health of the child.

“I want you to keep in mind – I’m not an obstetrician, I’m a field surgeon, so my findings are a little rough. I did what I could with the ultrasound and a couple of books. That said, it looks to me that she’s about six months along, with a normal, strong baby. A baby girl.”

Gabriel watched his brother’s expression, a mask of stone. “Thank you, doctor. We appreciate your help.”

“I’m still not sure what I was looking for. What did you think I’d find?”

“Nothing.” Michael’s voice was low, emotionless. “May I speak with her?”

“Yes, for a bit.” The doctor frowned. “Like I said, she’s exhausted, she needs rest. If you could – “

The archangel had already pushed past them all and into the hospital ward, closing the door behind him.

Michael carried the chair back over to the side of the low bed and set it down silently, careful to make as little noise as possible. He could see that Laurel was sleeping, her features softly relaxed, a tiny smile playing across her lips. The frown that so often creased her forehead – she worried about so many things – was gone, at least for now. 

He could see now that her face was fuller, her cheeks just a bit more rounded. Although she had smudges of exhaustion below her eyes, overall, she looked healthy. The doctor may have told him this yet seeing it for himself somehow made it true. 

And then there was the evidence of her pregnancy, the fullness of her belly under the sheet, now so obvious. For a brief time, memories flooded back on him – the soft flat of her abdomen, the curve of her hips under his hands, the swell of her breasts against his chest – and unconsciously, his expression echoed hers.

Her head turned toward him and sleepy eyes opened once, then again. Her smile grew wider. “It _is_ you. I thought it was a dream.” She tried to rise, grunting with effort.

He gently lay his hand on her shoulder. “No, stay down, the doctor wants you to rest.”

She took the suggestion with relief, falling back against the pillow. “I didn’t know what I would find here, I never thought it would be you.” 

She gazed up at him for a moment, still drowsy, but gradually the smile fell away. Fully awake now, her brows knit in dismay. “What happened to you? I thought…the Celebration…I thought you were dead, Michael. And then, your grave…” She trailed off as if the subject was too painful to continue.

Michael chose to avoid the query, at least for now. “I think the more appropriate question is what are _you_ doing here? And why were you walking?”

Her head turned away and she wrapped her arms around her stomach protectively. “Things… changed. I needed to get away from Mallory.”

“What things?”

“The Prophet. He returned.”

“The Prophet – he’s there, in Mallory?”

“Yes.” She grimaced. “I told you the story of when he first came to Mallory, how he offered us salvation, protection from Gabriel and the eight-balls. We agreed – well, most of us did – and in exchange we’ve survived. More than that, we’ve thrived, and we hadn't seen him since.”

Michael was not sure that he held with the notion of “thriving,” but he could not discount the incredible sense of serenity that he had felt during his time in the town, a feeling he knew Laurel was very proud of. That serenity, however, had come at a steep price.

“What changed this time?” he asked.

“When the returned, he was...different. When he realized that you were gone, that your grave was empty, he wanted another sacrifice in your place.”

The archangel clenched his jaw to stay silent. He’d thought that might have happened, even with the bargain he had made.

“Wes volunteered,” Laurel continued, thoughtful. “I don’t know why. He wasn’t the same after you left.” 

Michael recalled the night visit he had made, revealing his form. “Wes had murdered Harper.” He had no remorse for Wes’s death.

“I know, but he was almost eager to die. It wasn’t…right. But then even Wes’s sacrifice wasn’t enough. The Prophet wanted another, I don’t know why – the Celebration had always been every five years, suddenly that wasn’t enough. The townspeople followed along blindly, they wouldn’t listen to anyone but the Prophet. After the attacks, after what we’d been through lately, and I was afraid he would come for me.”

Come for her and her child. “What did he say?”

Her eyes fell. “There were rumors that I was complicit in what happened with you, that I did it to get out of the sacrifice. People thought that you and I were…involved.” She looked up at him, a hint of pink in her cheeks. “It didn’t matter what they thought, I would have done it for them. I would have gone back into the church, I would have taken their secrets and sins into my heart and taken the knife and...but then I found out…” Once again, she wrapped her arms around her middle. The sparkle of tears shone in her eyes.

Michael forced himself to push down the rage that churned inside him. His hands tightened into fists. “The Prophet may be angry that I spoiled his plans for the sacrifice but taking it out on an innocent is unconscionable.” 

“I can’t believe our Father would allow something like this. It has to be some kind of a test.”

Now was not the time for Michael to confront her, to explain exactly whose voice she heard. “Tell me, why here?” he said instead. “Why did you come to this place?”

Like a switch, her expression changed to a sweet look of tranquility. “He told me to, our Father told me to.” She smiled now in remembrance. “I was so worried, and then one night as I was praying, I heard His voice. He told me to go north, that I would find people who would take care of me.”

“The voice told you to leave Mallory?”

“Yes.” She nodded, beaming. “The next night I took a truck and whatever fuel I could find and left while everyone was asleep.”

“By yourself?”

“Of course. Father said I would be alright.”

Michael was speechless. 

“Things were going well,” she continued, “until the truck broke down. There was an old sign, it said 50 miles to Huntsville. I thought there might be someone there.”

“You _walked_ fifty miles?”

She shrugged. “What choice did I have? I had a gun and some rations. I know how to forage. And He told me to go.”

Michael shook his head; her actions were either incredibly stupid or incredibly brave, probably a combination of the both, brought on by fear for her baby. Charlie had shown him just how far a mother would go to protect her child.

Laurel’s utter faith in the voice that she heard, Lucifer’s voice – that was more worrisome, but he would deal with that later.

“I was just going to keep walking until I found someone,” she continued, then her expression changed once more. Now her face held a combination of hope and confusion. “I never expected to find you…I thought… Michael, we _buried_ you.”

He dropped his head. “I’m sorry, there was no other way." 

“I know. It’s just that…when we found your body gone…I didn’t know what had happened.”

“Laurel.” He grasped her hand in a kind of gentle desperation. It frightened him how much he cared for this woman, even months later. It frightened him how much he could hurt her. “There are things about me that you do not know.”

“You’ve said as much.” She gave him a look that was like a cool breeze to his troubled soul, a look of kindness and acceptance. “You’re alive, that’s all that matters. Someday you’ll tell me, when you’re ready.”

She hadn’t changed, not one bit. Her trust in him made Michael feel even worse.

Now she laughed. “So, um, I guess I should probably tell you.” Her hands smoothed over the sheet, showing the roundness of her belly. “Surprise?” She smiled up at him sheepishly.

“Yes,” he sighed, trying to keep the boiling emotions out of his voice. “You’re with child. The doctor that examined you said your baby is healthy, there’s no ill effects from your ordeal. Did they tell you? You’re having a girl.”

“A girl?” For a moment, she was contemplative. “A girl. I never thought about a little girl.” Then she turned to him. “But Michael, it’s _your_ little girl, too.”

“No.” The archangel stood abruptly. “That can’t be.”

“What?” she protested. “What are you talking about?”

He backed away from the side of the bed. “I can’t – there has to be another.”

Laurel struggled to sit up. “Another man? No, there wasn’t, there never was. Why would you even think that?”

“I can’t have…it’s not possible.”

“What do you mean, not possible? The proof is right here!” She held her hand over her stomach.

He shook his head once again. _It was impossible!_

“There was no one else, Michael, there never was. I’ve never…I’ve never felt this way about anyone, never been….” She faltered. “Before you came along, I knew that I was destined to be the sacrifice. I wasn’t going to leave a child behind like my father left me. And after you…after you died, after we buried you…” She hitched herself up further in the bed, the better to see him. “Michael, do you honestly think anyone could take your place, that I could feel that way about anyone else? I still hurt from losing you, every day, right up until I saw you again.”

She was so earnest, her face so open and honest, he hated that he doubted her.

Then her look suddenly changed to one of resolve. She sat up straighter, her chin jutting out in defiance. “Maybe you don’t want this baby, that’s your prerogative. I can love her and raise her on my own, but that doesn’t change the fact: she _is_ your child.”

Michael sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his head swimming with the possibility of her words. Either the doctor was wrong and the baby was not normal, or Laurel was wrong and there was another father or…or else…

…or else Laurel was carrying another child like Alex, a miracle child.

Yet Father was gone, there were no more miracles. How could this be?

Laurel watched him, trying to read his face. “Why won’t you believe me? You want to, I can see in it your eyes, you _want_ this child. Why don’t you accept it, why won’t you allow yourself some happiness?”

He stared at her as if she had spoken a foreign language, as if the words had no meaning to him. “Happiness?” His voice was barely audible. _Did he have that right?_ He reached out and held the side of her face in his palm. “I’ve told you before – I’m not the man you think I am. I’ve gloried in the fight, I’ve had blood running from my sword, I’ve killed with my bare hands. I’ve slaughtered thousands and I reveled in it. I don’t deserve happiness.”

“I’ve seen you fight, Michael. I’ve seen you fight for me and my people – you saved countless lives. You sacrificed yourself to save me. Just who do you think you are? What kind of man do you think you are?”

For a moment, he agonized over the decision. Was she strong enough, could she handle the truth? But she’d always been strong, stronger than almost anyone. Even the dark circles under her eyes couldn’t overshadow the determination within them.

“I want you to know that I never meant to lie to you, I didn’t want to keep this from you when I was in Mallory…” He stood up again. “Please forgive me, Laurel. While I was there, while I was with you…I needed the chance to be someone else. _Something_ else.” 

With a hitch of his shoulders, his wings carefully unfurled behind him. His gaze fell to the floor as they partially extended, as if he was embarrassed by their very existence.

Laurel fell back against the pillows. For a full minute, her breath was the only sound in the room.

Finally, she spoke. “You’re an angel.”

“Archangel,” he corrected with a hint of wryness. “There aren’t many of us left.”

She took in another long, measured lungful. “The Archangel Michael.”

“Yes.” He tucked his wings back in, praying he had not made a mistake.

For a few moments longer, she stared at her hands as they lay on her stomach. “God’s Sword.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you didn’t die during the Celebration. You knew you wouldn’t die.”

“I did not _think_ I would. No matter what, I knew I could not let you.”

He watched her ponder this. “But you _might_ have,” she finally said. “Died, I mean.”

“There was a chance. I wasn’t sure exactly what the Celebration entailed.”

When she looked up at him, her eyes were wide and bright even through her exhaustion. “Don’t you see, that proves it.”

“Proves what?”

“That you _are_ the man, the angel, I thought you were. If you had known that nothing would happen, then it wouldn’t have been a risk. Yet it _was_ a risk, the risk of your own life for mine.” She shook her head. “I always knew you had secrets, I knew you carried terrible guilt with you, but I saw the good inside of you, Michael, the good that’s always been there. Nothing has changed, except now you’re going to be a father.”

“Don’t _you_ see, that changes everything!”

Laurel let out a short laugh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, it does.” She reached out her hand to his. “We can work it out, we can work it out together. If you want to.”

Michael had never considered being a father before, the thought of offspring had always carried the horror of the Nephilim. Now, things were different. A child, _his_ child… He took her outstretched hand, his face filled with both trepidation and hope. “Yes, yes I’d like that.”

“But later,” she laughed softly. “I’m sorry, right now, I’m so damn tired I can barely think straight.”

“Of course.” He pulled the blanket up as she snuggled back down in the bed. “You need rest, I’ve only added to your stress.”

Her eyes were already closed. Before he left, he paused to push back the hair on the side of her face, tucking it behind her ear. A tiny smile tugged at her lips as she gave in to the exhaustion.

“Michael?”

He turned back. “Yes?”

“Thank you. For telling me.” 

Alex and Gabriel were waiting in the hall outside when Michael finally emerged from the hospital ward. Alex started to move forward but his father held him back. “Let him come to us,” he warned, quickly reading the expression on his twin’s face.

Michael seemed lost within his own thoughts; he barely noticed the other two and was almost past them when he looked up. “Have you been waiting for me?”

The corner of Gabriel’s mouth crooked up. “Alex is here for support. I’m just curious.” He watched his brother for a moment, saw the lack of reaction, the lack of anything but shock. “I know that look, Michael, I’ve seen it in the mirror. Laurel told you the child is yours.”

His brother nodded dumbly.

“Do you believe her?”

“I don’t understand how but I can’t believe she spoke anything but the truth.”

Gabriel’s eyes opened very wide. “Interesting. That makes two of us then, archangels with human children. Raphael will be scandalized.”

“Does she know?” Alex interrupted. “That you’re an archangel?”

“She didn’t. I told her just now.”

“How did she take it?”

Michael looked over Alex’s shoulder to the hospital door, as if he expected to see Laurel standing there. “She’s always been accepting, more than anyone I know. It’s one of her strengths.”

“Finding out the father of your child isn’t human takes more than a little acceptance,” Gabriel noted.

Michael switched his faraway gaze to his brother. “As you would know.”

His twin gave the smallest of shrugs. “She must be a rather extraordinary woman. I mean, to make it all the way up here by herself, in her condition.”

The comment, or perhaps the tone, broke Michael out of his reverie. His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Mean? Nothing. Only that you’re lucky she was able to get here, unharmed, with your child. Who knows what could have happened to her coming all the way from Mallory? Interesting that she never ran into any eight-balls, or other… problems.”

“Her vehicle broke down fifty miles from here and she walked the rest of the way. Is that enough of a ‘problem’ for you? It wasn’t an easy journey and she’s exhausted.”

Gabriel’s brow lifted. “And here you were simply waiting to rescue her.”

“What are you insinuating?”

“Insinuating? Nothing. It’s just that I’ve never been a fan of coincidence, Michael, and it’s a rather large coincidence that your former lover shows up at this abandoned base at the same time you happen to take up residence.”

For a split-second, Michael considered repeating all that Laurel had said to him, then changed his mind. They didn’t need to know the reason she had come this way, not yet. “The Prophet is in Mallory. He’s calling for more sacrifices, and she was afraid she would be picked. She was afraid for herself and the child. She took a vehicle and headed north. That I was here –”

“– was just a coincidence,” Gabriel interjected. 

“Perhaps it was.” He wasn’t sure yet himself but he wasn’t about to rule it out. No matter what, he didn’t appreciate the other angel’s tone. “I’ll not be ruled by your paranoia, Gabriel.”

“Then let me give you a word of advice, brother. Don’t be ruled by your heart.”

Michael glared at him for the space of a breath, then roughly shouldered past and made his way toward the door into the night.

Alex watched him walk away. He glanced back at his father. “Did you really mean that?”

“Of course I meant it,” came the terse reply. Gabriel, too, stared after the receding figure. “It can’t be a coincidence that we are here making our plans for an assault on Mallory and suddenly Michael’s old flame shines around. She’s as much as admitted that she was a servant of Lucifer. She was his disciple in their so-called house of worship, she was willing to kill herself for him. I can’t see her drawing the line at playing Delilah to Michael’s Samson.”

Alex frowned; he had no idea what the reference meant. “But she’s having Michael’s baby. That has to mean something.”

“Something? Oh, it means much more than just _something_.” Gabriel laughed bitterly. “You’re all missing the point. I don’t know exactly how he did it – Lucifer was the only one of us with the power of creation, he obviously found some way – but that child was created for a purpose. She is only important because of her parents, a human and an archangel.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean I don’t think that’s just a baby, Alex. That child is Lucifer’s back-up plan. Think of it: if something happens to you, now there’s another Chosen One for him to use.” 

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 10_

The next morning found Michael standing in the doorway of the makeshift hospital room, leaning against the doorframe as Gabriel had been doing the day before. His concentration, however, was on the other side of the room, on the figure resting in the bed there, and he failed to notice his brother’s arrival.

“We missed you at the strategy session,” Gabriel said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “yet another of their interminable ‘meetings.’ Jenkins asked where you were.”

“What did you tell him?” Michael failed to take his gaze from the sleeping form.

“I didn’t have to tell him anything, everyone knows where you are, where you’ve been for the last day. The problem is that you weren’t where you were _supposed_ to be. We need your input regarding Mallory, you’re the only one who has spent any time there. This is a joint expedition, Michael, I shouldn’t have to tell you that you have a responsibility.”

“Laurel and her baby are my responsibility. Their safety.”

Gabriel’s eyes rolled back in annoyance. “They’re surrounded by a battalion of armed soldiers, I think they are as safe as they could be. Really, brother, you needn’t babysit them twenty-four hours a day.”

Michael finally turned back toward him with a look as stony as the white marble found in the hills nearby. “She’s carrying my child.”

“I understand, but that does not mean you can neglect the whole reason we came here. Laurel will be fine without you standing guard.”

One eyebrow slowly raised, the only sign of emotion on the other archangel’s face. “You’re not the one to be giving parenting advice.”

Gabriel was shocked; it was unlike his brother to be this petty. “What did you say?”

“You’ll understand if I don’t follow your example,” Michael continued, his voice tinged with contempt. “Your history with your children is less than stellar. You left Charlie when you found out she was with child – you abandoned your son before he was even born. Now, Alex can’t stand the thought that you’re his father. And David, we know what happened to David.”

Gabriel’s sword was up out of its scabbard and at his brother’s neck before he could get out another word. His eyes sparked. “Watch your words, Michael.”

For a split second, Michael’s fingers flinched toward his own weapons, then he stopped. The look he saw in his twin’s face was more than just cold rage, more than anger barely held in check. He could see something else his words had tapped into – a deep pit of pain and regret. He dropped his empty hands to his sides and his shoulders fell, his features twisted into remorse. “Brother, I’m sorry. I should never have said that to you.”

Gabriel’s blade trembled with a fury longing to be unleashed. “Anyone else would be laying on the floor without their head.” With visible effort, he stepped back and sheathed his sword. “You’ve let this woman take over your thoughts, Michael, you’ve forgotten everything else.”

Michael shook his head. “You, of anyone, should understand. I never thought that I would see Laurel again, and now here she is, _with my child._ ”

“I do understand, because it’s all so familiar. Too familiar. Don’t you remember? Lucifer used a child to drive a wedge between us before, one that lasted for more than twenty-five years.”

“That won’t happen again.” Michael’s forehead furrowed as he glanced between the far bed and his twin. “I’ll meet with you and Jenkins in an hour and we’ll go over everything else I know about the town. You’ll have all the information I can give you.” Then he turned and walked into the hospital ward.

Gabriel watched him go in silence. He could read his brother’s expressions as if they were words on a page. Michael knew, they both knew. 

That wedge, that distance – it was already there.

It was the third day that he had been at the missile base and Alex was bored. Convoys had already brought in almost two thousand people, and everyone, it seemed, had a job to do. Everyone but him. Patrols were constantly going out searching for any kind of locals, be they human, eight-balls or otherwise, but even with his history in the Archangel Corps and his extensive time outside of Vega, Alex was not invited along.

Nor was he needed to set up the variety of sub-commands the Wildcats used – C&C, medical, housing. The various groups went about their work with admirable efficiency; it was obvious that this was not the first time Jenkins and his people had done this kind of work.

For his part, Gabriel was in meetings or on aerial reconnaissance, flying in ever-widening arcs around the base, checking for anything that might be of interest. Alex might have some super-human powers, _(powers that he wasn’t currently practicing, thank you very much, Michael)_ but unless he suddenly grew wings, he would be little help with that.

And Michael – well, he _had_ been working with Gabriel until Laurel showed up. Now he might as well be back in Vega for all he was involved.

Alex continued to look for some way to be useful. The Wildcats had a series of miniature drones that they occasionally deployed, sending them high into the sky to follow up on local points of interest. The drone pilots were specialists as well, able to manipulate the little craft into the tightest of spots, the densest of foliage. Although they had drones in Vega, Alex had never been trained in their use; he was sure that he would put one of the tiny contraptions into a tree before he ever got any information of value.

Which left him rather out of sorts, the lack of meaningful activity and the unknown future of their endeavor creating a kind of tension that felt like ants running up and down his spine. He needed to be needed, to do _something¸_ or he felt as if he might just lose his mind.

Whether he wanted to or not, it was time to go to the top.

Jenkins’ group, setting up C&C, had commandeered a moderately sized room that had once been the chapel in the same building that now housed the infirmary. It was interesting that this room, a holy space, had been left relatively untouched by the chaos that had ripped through the base over two decades before. Very little had been disturbed – the lectern had been left standing and the chairs were still in their neat little rows when the first recon group had entered the room. It was as if even the eight-balls had considered the area sacrosanct. 

Now the former chapel was filled with a half-dozen makeshift desks and varied boxes of supplies. Hand-drawn plots covered the walls, information added as it became available, everything in preparation for whatever was to come. 

Jenkins himself had taken what had once been the chaplain’s office, a small but private room off of the main space. In his only concession to his new rank, he’d passed on sleeping in the former school-turned-bunkhouse and instead had a cot installed in the office, turning the crowded space into his full-time quarters.

Alex saluted his way as he walked through; many of the people there held the rank of Commander, and even though he wasn’t technically part of _this_ army, he showed his respect. 

Outside the door to Jenkins office, Mouse sat at a rusting secretary’s desk that had to be at least 75 years old. A pile of maps, binders and books balanced precariously on the corner and proceeded to topple over on to the floor as Alex came closer.

He leaned down to help her pick them up, glancing at the cover of one of the booklets. It looked ancient, pre-digital, probably found in one of the numerous beige filing cabinets that were scattered around the building. “Housing Report,” he read out loud.

“Exciting stuff,” she quipped as she took the book from his outstretched hand and added it to the pile in her arms. “Almost as exciting as meal plans.”

“I’ll trade you. All I’m doing is standing around. Nobody seems to know what to do with me. Even Michael doesn’t have anything for me to do, he’s spending all his time with Gabriel. Or Laurel.”

She grimaced. It was true, she’d heard Commander Jenkins and the archangels talking about it – they all knew that Alex had a vital part to play in the upcoming battle with Lucifer, but as of yet, no one knew what that role was. Until then, there had been an unspoken agreement amongst them all to simply try to keep the Chosen One _safe_.

She unceremoniously plopped the maps and books back onto her desk, then grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back outside the main room into the hallway. Alex came along willingly. In the few weeks since his mother’s death, they’d formed a kind of kinship based in loss. This was less Commander-to-Captain than friend-to-friend.

“It’s not like I want to be doing this paperwork bullshit either,” she started once they were out of earshot of the others, “but we need to get the FOB established before we can consider moving on Mallory.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean I’m not doing anything! I don’t have an assignment, I don’t have any responsibilities. Other people are working on the barracks or out on patrol or setting up battle plans, I’m doing jack shit.”

“What do you want, a job?”

Alex rolled his eyes. “I need to _do_ something, not just sit around waiting for Lucifer to show up. All this waiting, it’s driving me crazy.”

She thought about it for a minute. It was understandable; they’d been working hard to set up the base, create a safe perimeter, even start preliminary battle strategy, and Alex had been shut out of all of it. As a ranking Captain from Vega, he was also in a gray area of status, not yet full command but having little or no history with the lower ranks of the Wildcats. He was right – no one was really sure what to do with him.

“Tell you what,’ she offered. “I’ll talk to Jenkins – Commander Jenkins,” she corrected herself, still working on the proper etiquette for her new position, “and see what I can do. We need S&R patrols as soon as primary recon is complete, we never have enough people for that. This place is bigger than we expected, there are almost 400 houses nearby, not including all the rest of the buildings. I know, it’s not the most glamourous job, but it will keep you busy and out of trouble.”

The pronouncement was met with a long sigh. Alex was getting the distinct impression that he was being pushed into a corner, that he was going to be saddled with a nanny and sent on a wild goose chase. A nice “safe” wild goose chase.

Well, at least it would be something to do.

When Michael pulled the chair up to Laurel’s bed, he was surprised to see her awake and propped up against a wedge of pillows and blankets. Her color looked good and the dark circles under her eyes had lost a little of their depth. 

She gazed up at him warmly as he sat down. “Good morning.”

The sight of her, of her improved condition, did much to turn about what had started out as a bad day. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better. I slept through the night. Well, at least I slept whenever they weren’t bothering me with a thermometer or checking my blood pressure.” She smoothed the covers over her belly. “The doctors are nice but, um, eager. I don’t think I’m exactly what they were planning for when they came here. They get a little excited when they come up with a new test or exam that they want to do on me. I’m starting to feel like a guinea pig.”

Michael’s head tipped fractionally to the side but he said nothing. 

She watched him quizzically, noting his lack of reaction. “Michael, what is it?” she asked, her tone now somber. “You’re here, but you’re not here.”

“I _am_ here,” he corrected her.

She couldn’t help the grin. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. It’s just… I know it’s a lot to deal with, me showing up here. And then _this_.” Once again, she ran her hands over her stomach. “It took me weeks to get used to the idea, I can’t expect you to accept it right away. It’s more than that, though. You seem, I don’t know, distant.”

He had to admit, she was right. He was keeping his distance, not just physically, but mentally. It wasn’t that he doubted her, but there was a difference between logic and emotion. Since last night he’d come to accept Laurel’s announcement logically, his mind still working to untangle the details, to find the cause and the effect, yet he accepted the facts – she was pregnant and somehow the child was his. 

However, believing that information emotionally was a different task. Emotions were Gabriel’s purview, not his, and quite frankly, he had little practice. There had been few children who had left a mark on Michael’s heart: Ishmael, the little shepherd who had saved him in the desert; David, Gabriel’s adopted son; and of course, Alex. He wasn’t sure how to acknowledge this child as his own.

Then there were things that she wasn’t aware of, things that weighed on him. It had been decided to keep the real reason for their encampment at the base from her for now, as well as Gabriel’s involvement. Along with the other issues that he was sorting through – Charlie’s death, Alex’s growing power, Gabriel’s suspicions – nothing was straightforward, nothing was easy.

Laurel sensed his recalcitrance. She reached out and took his hand, grasping it tightly. “Here. Feel that? I’m no different than I was.” She gazed at him with the quiet, confident wisdom that he so admired. “I’m the same person I was before, just…a little bigger around the middle.”

The corners of his mouth tweaked up in a reluctant smile. “It’s not you, it’s other matters.”

Her expression solemn, she gently pulled his hand up on top of the covers. “For this moment, let this be what matters.”

As his fingers rested gently on the rounded curve of her belly, he felt the softness of the blanket, the heat from her body, the rise and fall of her breathing. Slowly, cautiously, he let down the psychic wall, the guard he kept in place against all but his brother and his Father, the wall that kept him sane in an insane world. Then…

 _Her_ …

He felt her, the child, _his_ child. The sensation – no, more than that – the _essence_ of that life, of the little girl she would become, flowed into him like a wave of pure joy, all bright sunshine and gentle rain, puppy kisses and dandelion fluff, lark song and laughter. His breath caught in his chest, his eyes opened wide and he leaned closer, wanting more, to feel more of that simple, unadulterated love.

He hadn’t really believed Gabriel when his brother had told him about sensing the life in Claire’s womb, about feeling the beauty of her spirit; after all, the closest thing Michael had ever experienced himself was those few minutes he had held Alex as an infant. Over the years, he’d forgotten that pleasure, the humble, humbling act of holding a child. 

Yet this, this was so much more. Gradually he slid off the chair onto his knees, his body gently shaking with emotion. Michael had always been reserved, slow to sentiment, even to anger. His violence was a part of his nature, but necessarily controlled. Few had known the true depth of his feelings; certainly, his siblings knew him better than any human, but now this infant, not even yet born, brought forth such an upwelling of hope, of happiness, it was difficult to keep within him. A silent tear ran down his cheek and he realized that nothing else mattered, nothing in the world. 

He would do anything for that tiny child.

Laurel’s hand slid over the top of his own. “Incredible, isn’t it?”

Mouse leaned back in her chair and stretched her shoulders. She’d been hunched over this batch of dusty files for over two hours, chasing a particularly elusive lead. She stifled a yawn and rolled her head from one side to the other, working the kinks out. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Another yawn caught her unawares and she covered her mouth with one hand.

_Exciting stuff, this._

It was eternally frustrating that the dozens of computer monitors she saw every day were little more than bulky paperweights; they had all been server-based, and the servers were often on completely different sites, especially when it came to the government. She knew that before the war, all the information she might have wanted would have been only a few keystrokes away. Now, it was buried in paper, if it was anywhere at all.

Right. Back to it.

From very early on in her young life, she’d been able to see patterns, to recognize faces (or names or addresses or just about anything) if she’d seen them once, to pull together disparate facts and make some kind of sense of them. It made her a good analyst and it made her a good spy. Being someone so dang tiny that she was usually considered harmless made her a _great_ spy, but it didn’t help out with the analysis part. 

That was just plain hard work, and she was good at that, too.

She knew that was why Jenkins had asked her to be his XO, he needed hard work and more hard work, and she wasn’t about to let him down. 

_If only she could find something…_

She flipped open yet another old folder, this one filled with the comings and goings of various transports through the control gates. Being a secure site, every truck had been searched and documented when it arrived and when it left.

She noticed the date, just a week before the Extermination War. They’d been left on a desk, never properly filed, forgotten until now.

It was all rather sad.

Her eyes skimmed through the reports...and stopped. There was a number, a container number that looked familiar. _VMSU1123583._ She knew that each of the over three million cargo containers in the world had its own unique number, and she’d seen about a hundred numbers over the last week, but this one, this one she’d seen before. She recognized it because it had almost a perfect Fibonacci sequence, a specific and recognizable series of numbers.

Where, where had she seen it before? She closed her eyes for a moment, visualizing the number – had it been typed, had it been hand written? Definitely hand written. A recent report then, her own people.

Her heart started beating just a bit faster as she gently pushed some of the papers into a pile, searching for one binder in particular. The last thing she needed right now was another avalanche.

There it was, the S&R reports. She opened the book, careful not to crack the plastic spine, and spread it out before her on the desk. 

It took her only a few seconds to read through each page, most of the general information already committed to memory somewhere in her brain. She was searching for the specific this time, that one number.

There it was, on the fifth page. A survey of a particularly large building near the landing strip, it had not one but two containers inside. They had obviously been offloaded but never even unsealed. They were listed for eventual discovery, but right now with contents unknown, they were low on the priority list.

Mouse checked the numbers in the binder, then on the transport log…and on the copy of the Bill of Lading _attached_ to the transport log, then she checked them again. Her hands started shaking ever so slightly. The one was hand written, it could be wrong, the numbers could be transposed…

_…or it could be a match!_

She gave a little squeak of excitement then looked around in embarrassment. Thankfully, no one had heard. Taking a deep breath to try to calm the butterflies that had rather suddenly appeared in her stomach, she pulled the relevant papers together in an untidy bunch.

The office door was mostly closed, but not all the way. She rapped her knuckles on the wood a few times and pushed it open. “Commander Jenkins, sir?

Jenkins looked up in surprise. It was unlike his XO to walk in like this. He dispensed with formalities. “Is there a problem?”

Mouse squeezed her eyes closed and grimaced. “I’m sorry, sir, the door was open. A little.”

He nodded. “And you’re obviously excited about something.”

“Yes, I am, sir. I think I found something.” She set the papers down on his desk. “Requesting permission to go with a squad to check it out.”

He scanned the papers but couldn’t make the connections. “What are we talking about, Mouse?”

“A shipment, sir. Supposed to go the Gulf. Never made it.”

“And what was in this shipment?”

“A UAV, sir.”

“A what?”

She grinned with delight, almost bouncing in place. “A pristine UAV. A big-ass fucking drone!”


	4. Chapter 4

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 11_

Alex received word of his assignment the next morning. With equal parts trepidation and relief, he made his way to one of the large buildings that had previously housed a motor pool. For the most part, this area of the base had been undamaged during the war – any item that could be used as a weapon had been carried off long ago, but the building itself, an ugly rectangle of cinderblock and aluminum, had stood the test of time. 

Just inside the big overhead door, groups of soldiers were sorting through the piles of parts and tools that had been left behind, filtering out those that might be useful either here or back in New Haven. The clang of metal and thump of tires rang throughout the cavernous space.

Seeing the stranger cast against the sunlight of the open garage door, one of them came forward, a stringy older man already dripping with sweat, even in the cooler fall air. “You the one Mouse sent by?” he questioned.

“Captain Alex Lannon.” As Alex’s eyes adjusted to the dark interior he couldn’t help grinning broadly. This was more like it – trucks and Humvees and other assorted vehicles filled the vast structure. “My dad taught me all about vehicles, sir, I’d be happy to help.”

The man, a fellow captain by the stripes on his oil-stained shirt, scowled. “Not why you’re here. I’ve got my crew for that. Mouse said to set you up on S&R.” He gave Alex a quick appraisal, taking in his odd uniform, the dagger he carried now instead of a sword. “Where’d you get that thing?”

It was difficult for Alex to hide the disappointment, the frustration that kept growing inside him like a poisonous vine. Now he was being grilled about his weapons. “It was my mother’s,” he snapped. “I took it out of a dyad’s chest.”

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “That was Commander Lannon’s weapon. I was there when _she_ pulled it out of a higher angel. Helluva fight. Helluva fighter.” He paused, relishing the memory. “You’re her son then.”

“Yes.”

Again, the older man gestured toward the dagger. “Where’s the other one? There were two.”

“Gabriel has it.” Alex tried to keep his tone somewhat civil but refused to give any more of an answer.

The captain mulled this over for a while, then stuck out a grimy hand. “Jack Parsons. Everyone calls me Captain Jack. I knew your mother from way back. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Alex shook the proffered hand; the man seemed sincere. “Thank you. I know you all miss her, too.”

“That we do, son, that we do.” Then, as if turning the page to a completely different story, he slapped Alex on the shoulder. “Let’s go find your new partner, time we put you to work.”

They walked together toward the far side of the building. There, a group of a dozen or so younger soldiers mulled about, talking softly. Alex could see that they all wore flak vests and sported a variety of weapons, everything from hand guns to automatic rifles. Each also carried an empty backpack and a flashlight.

“Listen up, people!” Captain Jack’s voice instantly brought silence to the group. They turned and stood at attention. “Time to shine. We’ve had pretty good luck with some of the administration buildings, so I’m hoping we’ll find the same out there. You’ve got your partners, you’ve got your tools, you know what to do. Sergeant Lopez!”

“Yes, sir!” A slim brunette with her hair in a pony tail and a splash of freckles across her cheeks stepped forward.

“You’re working with Alex today.”

“Sir?” Her eyes questioned him as much as the word. She’d instantly taken in Alex’s uniform and registered him as an outsider, unwelcome. “O’Connell and I –”

“You will work with _Captain Lannon_ today.” He stressed the name, not to be argued with. “Show him the ropes, I doubt they do this kind of thing in fancy Vega. Now get going, all of you. I don’t want to see any of you back before nightfall.”

The group shuffled away, offering desultory salutes, but Captain Jack didn’t seem to mind. He’d already turned his attention back toward a loud noise coming from the far side of the building. “Have fun, Lannon!” he called over his shoulder as he loped away.

That left Alex standing with the unimpressed Sergeant Lopez. “Come on, _Captain_ ” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “You can’t go out like that.”

Five minutes later, Alex was kitted out with the same sort of flak vest, rifle and flashlight, plus a well-used machete. Lopez shoved a backpack at him, then a canteen and a small waxed roll. 

“What’s this?”

“Lunch,” she answered. “We won’t be back until dark. Hope you like jerky.” She started off down the wide street.

Alex quickly shoved the canteen and jerky into the backpack and slung the rifle over his shoulder. He struggled to find some way to fix the machete to his belt while he ran to catch up with her. “Where are we going?”

“Out there,” she waved her hand toward the east. 

“Wait,” he begged, almost jogging to keep up. Although they were nearly the same height, her legs were long and she set a brisk pace. “What are we doing?”

“S&R.”

“Search and Rescue?”

She wheeled on him, her eyes blazing with impatience. “Salvage and Recovery.”

“You’re scavengers?”

“ _Salvage and Recovery_ ,” she repeated emphatically, her face close to his. “There are almost 400 units out there that might have salvageable goods. That’s our job. Let’s go.”

Alex was silent as they walked down the road toward the residential section of the base. They kept going that way until they reached the far north side and a street of single-family homes. Originally, the houses had been disconcertingly similar, variations on the theme of a three-bedroom suburban ranch, they stood in various stages of neglect and disrepair. Alex looked around. At one time this had probably been a very nice neighborhood, young starter-families raising children, little kids playing out on the lawn. 

Now the lawns were like miniature jungles, weeds and grass endeavoring to outgrow each other, to take over not only the lawn but the driveways and the street. A few trees had toppled over in the decades since the area had been abandoned, landing on garages and rooftops and blocking the road in places. Small animals scurried through the underbrush, making tiny skittering noises, popping out of nowhere and occasionally sending hands reflexively to weapons. 

A few of the homes had basketball hoops still standing in the driveways, the nets long gone, but the metal stanchions still erect. Alex could almost imagine the sounds of the children playing, the thump of the ball, the jangle as it hit the rim. He remembered playing with Jeep out at the farmhouse, the old ball hard as a rock, barely able to bounce…

 _Not now_ , he told himself, tucking the memory away into the corner of his mind, _now was not the time_.

“Well, shit,” he started as they moved toward the first house, hacking at overgrown shrubberies with the machete. This one looked worse than most, a ramshackle affair that had a hole in the roof and a door that practically swung in the breeze. “This is depressing. What exactly are we looking for?”

Sergeant Lopez made her way to toward the front door, or what was left of it, and pushed it open, her weapon at the ready. She instantly backed up, her hand pressed to her nose – the smell wafting through the door was especially pungent. Pushing forward again, she quickly swept the room and then motioned him inside. 

“I doubt we’ll find anything here, but you know, anything that we can take back home to use. Decent pots and pans and flatware, knives and forks and such. Metal that can be recast. Dishes that are in good condition. Little stuff like needles and thread, scissors, pencils. Bandages that haven’t been opened. Good linens and blankets are like gold, so is cloth that hasn’t been sewn yet.” She opened the closet near the entrance and then closed it quickly – there was nothing worth looking at inside. “Sometimes we’ll take clothes if they’re in really good shape, especially stuff like jeans and heavier jackets. Shoes and boots, too, but a lot of those are rotted out and useless. Don’t bother with any kind of food or medicine, most of it’s spoiled.” She looked around the main room that opened up off the entrance hall. Paint peeled from the walls, showing great black patches of mildew beneath. The couch that took up the center of the room was green with growth – mold, small hardy plants, even a curling vine – and tufts of dark fur. It looked as if some kind of animal had been nesting in it for years. Scat filled the corner of the room, as well as scattered piles of bones. “At least it’s not eight-balls,” she noted with a cough. The odor of musk, ammonia and feces was nauseatingly strong.

“Should we go upstairs?” Alex asked, peering around the corner to see the kitchen in nearly the same condition.

“No, I don’t think we should bother. This place has had water damage for a while, everything’s going to either be moldy or turned into a nest. I’ll check the garage for a vehicle and see if it’s in any shape for salvage, then we’ll move on. FYI,” she noted, “Garages aren’t very secure, there can be a lot of vermin in them. They can smell even worse than this place.” She coughed again. “Or maybe not. Shit, let’s get out of here.”

Moving on to the next house on the row, they found much of the same, as well as in the house after that. Many of the entry-level homes, it would seem, had not withstood the battering of wind and weather for the past 25 years; water damage was everywhere.

One house further down the street had obviously been used by eight-balls, but by the layers of dust and lack of any fresh food or other signs of activity, they could see that it had been abandoned many years before. 

They continued on. In more than one place they found the desiccated bodies of women, children, pets, their skin shriveled and tight against bones, the wall-to-wall carpeting they lay on stained with blood and body fluids. Sometimes part or most of the body was missing – animals had been the first scavengers to find them.

House after house they found little except death and decay. They’d been at it for over an hour in virtual silence and near defeat. Finally, Alex could stand it no longer. “Is this what you do all day, Sergeant? Sift through graves?” He turned away in disgust from yet another pile of gnawed bones that had probably once been a child. “Shouldn’t we be doing something more…productive.”

She turned around and gave him an appraising eye. “You have a better idea? Are you suggesting that we disobey orders, _Captain?_ ”

Alex stepped back. He hadn’t meant it like that, that he was pulling rank or suggesting anything of the sort. He realized suddenly that his place here, an outsider, was perhaps more tolerated than accepted. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound that way. It’s just – we’re supposed to be at war with Lucifer, and here we are literally looking for needles in a haystack.”

She sighed, the sound of a sorely tested person trying not to lose their temper. “Ok, I get it. You’re new here. So first, when we’re out in the field, if it’s alright with you,” she spread her hands out. “It’s Naomi or Lopez, whichever you want. Rank isn’t going to mean shit if you need fast backup.”

He nodded. “Alex.”

“Ok, Alex. I know you’re probably used to playing soldier boy all day long,” she watched as he rolled his eyes, “but things are a little different with the Wildcats. Almost everyone I know is a soldier, either active or reserve, so we all have to work together to look after each other. We don’t have a whole community to support ‘the army’, we support each other. And that means that every mission includes S&R. Hell, sometimes a mission is _only_ S&R. If I don’t bring home metal, then there’s nothing to make ammunition with and my gun is useless when it’s time to fight. If I don’t bring home those needles, that thread and material, then the sewing ladies have nothing to work with and I don’t have clothes to wear. If I don’t find blankets, then the farmers freeze to death during the winter, and I go hungry. Do you see how it works?”

Once again, Alex was amazed at the community his mother had created, something so different from the stratified, insular world he had been brought up in. He thought about how the Wildcats were thriving, while Vega, theoretically more scientifically advanced, had spent the last twenty years trying to tear itself apart. There was something to be learned there. 

“So, we’re going to scavenge through every one of these houses,” he said.

“ _Salvage and Recovery,”_ she said again, with even more emphasis. “And yes, every single stinking one, just in case, because I’m thorough and I’m the best at what I do. And if we find anything, we’ll mark it and Recovery will come in and haul it back to New Haven.”

He nodded, making a mental note to remove the term “scavenge” from his lexicon. “Alright. I guess I’ll check the garage this time. You got the last one.”

She bobbed her head. “Thanks.”

It was mid-afternoon by the time they had cleared the street, both sides. By unspoken agreement they had agreed to keep going until every house had been searched. Some took little more than a cursory glance, like the first house, too far gone for anything of value to remain. Others were worthy of a more thorough exploration. Naomi stood next to a full rucksack while Alex had another bag, half as full, slung over his shoulder. 

They stood on the corner and looked back on what they had just finished, marking it off on a large map Naomi had pulled from a cargo pocket in her pants. Two of the garages were marked for further recon, but for the most part, the pickings had been slim.

“What do you say,” she motioned to another street on the map that spread off the main thoroughfare one block south. “Lunch break and then we start down there?”

Alex nodded and shrugged out of his backpack, pulling out the canteen and jerky. It had been difficult not to drink often from the canteen – the dust and mold had threatened to choke him more than once – but he knew that the supply he carried was limited.

Naomi shocked him, then, when she liberally splashed water over her hands and pulled out a tiny bar of soap from a pocket in her vest. She grinned when she saw the look on his face. “Listen, I’d rather be a little thirsty that ingest more of the shit we just went through. Breathing it is bad enough.”

She had a point. More than once, they had pulled their shirts up over their faces to take a quick survey of a particularly bad area. He nodded toward the soap. “Could I borrow that?”

She handed it to him graciously, even helping to pour the water over his hands. They both stood for a minute, letting the autumn sunshine bake some of the mustiness out of their clothes. “What do you think so far?” Naomi finally asked as she opened her package of jerky.

Alex took a long sip of water. He would allow himself only one more before they started off again. “I understand why you do it, but it’s frustrating, we’ve found so little.”

“It can be. Then again, sometimes you get lucky and score a really good haul. That’s why I check every place out, you never know what you’re going to discover, could be that one thing that no one else has been able to find. Colonel Andrews originally had the idea for S&R crews, but Commander Lannon really got it organized, got the details worked out. She would send units into the field specifically to…”

Her voice trailed off and she watched him silently for a moment, taking in the melancholy that had settled over his features at the mention of the commander’s name. “God, I’m stupid.” She smacked her palm against her forehead. “ _Lannon_. Alex _Lannon_. You’re her son.”

The jerky quickly eaten, they started down the next street a few minutes later. Alex scanned the broken macadam, looking for any obvious warning signs and finding none. This area looked more affluent than the neighborhood they had been in previously, the houses a variety of two-story saltboxes and colonials, not the cookie-cutter ranches they had just surveyed. Some of the houses had faux columns in front, the paint peeling from them, vines stretching up over the porches. Others had brick facades or different ornamental features, now all covered in mildew or dirt.

“Looks like the brass lived here,” he offered. “Bigger houses, nicer yards.”

“Better pickings, I hope. I like to start with the crap at the beginning and finish on a high note. Your choice this time, where should we go first?”

Alex shrugged. He knew Naomi was trying to make up for the embarrassment she’d caused over his identity, embarrassment for both of them. He’d grown at least somewhat accustomed to it over the last few days, people realizing who he was, not the Chosen One, but “ _her son_.” With the Wildcats, that relationship held much more weight than any rank or destiny or association with archangels. 

He’d learned throughout the morning, however, to defer to her expertise. “I’ll let you pick.”

She scanned the rows of houses. There were fewer of them due to the size of their yards, their green expanses larger yet equally overgrown. “Let’s start in the middle,” she pointed, aiming her rifle at a still-elegant looking Georgian colonial about halfway down the block. “The one with the pretentious columns out front. Looks like a VIP lived there.”

They left the full bag of gatherings near the corner and ventured down what had once been a well-manicured cul-de-sac. The road was narrower here, more private. More than once, Alex had to use the machete to hack away some of the ornamental bushes and trees that had taken over without the landscaping services that had obviously kept them in check.

Finally, they reached the house and ran a quick perimeter check, then met at the front door. “Anything?” Naomi asked.

“No. In fact, it looks really tight. All the lower windows I could see had shutters on them, real shutters, not those plastic decorative pieces of crap, and they were all closed. They didn’t look like they’d been disturbed.”

“Same thing here. The backdoor felt like it was swollen shut.” She tried the tarnished brass knob on the oak door, rattling the latch. It held firm. Her eyes twinkled. “This could get interesting. Either it’s going to be completely disgusting or its going to be a mother lode.”

Kneeling in front of the door, she pulled a case from her pocket and took out a pair of thin metal sticks. “Best lock pick in the unit,” she said with a kind of pride as she inserted the prongs into the key opening. “This shouldn’t take too long.”

“You guys have some unique talents.”

She grinned in return and set to work. Alex could feel a sense of rising excitement. Looking around, it was obvious that the houses on this street were in better condition than the last, built better and more likely to withstand the years. Roofs were more likely to be intact, windows still unbroken. The fatigue and discouragement that had started to overtake him receded like morning fog clearing before the sun.

It took less than a minute for her to fiddle the pins of the lock and twist the knob open. Then, like the rear door, this one proved to be swollen, sticking in the jamb. Naomi put her shoulder into it but it refused to budge.

“Here,” Alex offered, “let me have a go.”

“I’m just a strong as you are, city boy.”

“I’m sure you are, but I weigh more.” Setting his gun down, he pushed once, then harder, but the door held fast. 

A thought came to mind. Since the firestorm at the farmhouse, Alex had been looking for the opportunity to try to use his markings again, to explore their potential, to find out what they could do and how he could use them. He was sure that eventually Michael would suggest something mundane like going out into the wilderness and blowing up rocks or fallen trees. While therapeutic, it seemed an ultimately fruitless exercise. Instead, he wanted to actively work on developing control over the power that resided within him – this could be the perfect opportunity.

“Why don’t you check the garage and see if you find anything?” he suggested. “Maybe there’s another entrance. I can keep working here.”

His companion looked at him warily; something about the offer didn’t seem quite right. “Yeah, I can try that. Give a yell if you get in.”

Alex watched her go around the corner of the house, then unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up his forearms, exposing the loops and whorls that covered his skin. Unconsciously, he flexed his hands, his gaze drifting far away yet at the same time inward. This would be a little different, he’d have to do this without all the anger, without the terror. He’d have to tap into that power without the fear that had accompanied it the other times. Deep down inside, he knew it could be done, he just wasn’t sure how.

There were two ways of going about this, he decided. Brute force would blow open the door and send it crashing through whatever lay on the other side (possibly on fire.) That would be the easiest option, requiring little effort other than unleashing the force within him. He figured he could do that on any given day.

On the other hand, busting the door open would risk the chance to safeguard any potential treasure that the house held. It would be worthwhile to try a little finesse, to keep the entrance usable, if at all possible. 

That was more difficult. He’d learned to control the tattoos to release the souls of the eight-balls and restore them back to their true human nature. Now he needed to use that same measure of control for this, to channel the massive power that he had released against Raphael.

He rested his palms above and below the handle, about two feet apart, and breathed deeply. A kind of warmth began to rush through him and the droning hum started in his head again, but this time he tried to limit it, to keep it to a dull background thrum, not the overwhelming klaxon sound that had happened back in the farmhouse. The marks on his skin began to glow with a soft, burnished gold.

He concentrated on the door, on pushing it open, on sending a push, a blast – he didn’t know what to call it – thrusting that _energy_ out through his hands and into the wood. He centered on the same feeling he’d had before, letting it build inside and then flow through him, releasing it just like he had done in the basement of the old ranch…just as he had sent the thick cellar doors blowing outward so he could run up out into the sunlight…so see them, to see his mother, to see Gabriel, Julian, to see Raphael….

Without warning, the memories rushed back at him; the anger, the fear, the pain, the horror of seeing his mother and all that blood. He felt himself start to lose control, to lose his focus, to feed the fire of hurt and rage. The feelings kept pouring out, an eruption he couldn’t stop – the ache of loss, the fury of his impotence – and the lines on his arms burned brighter, the thrum became a buzz that filled his head. 

Beneath his hands, the old paint started to blister. Tiny eddies of smoke curled around his fingers.

“Alex!” Naomi’s voice rang in his ears but it seemed distant, unimportant.

The buzzing grew louder, the pain in chest grew more intense, a blaze building within him.

“Lannon!” she cried even louder. “That’s enough! Back off, soldier, stand down! STAND DOWN!”

The command was perfect, zeroing in on his years and years of training, her authoritative tone going straight to his brain. A decade of discipline kicked in and he pulled his hands away from the door, the charred paint sticking to his fingertips. His breath came hard and fast as he struggled to stay upright while the marks on his skin gradually faded from yellow to dark gold to deep reddish brown.

“Alex?” Naomi wanted to reach out, to keep him from toppling over, but fear held her back. “What – what were you doing? What was that?”

He rested his forehead against the doorframe in a combination of exhaustion and embarrassment. How had she known what to say? His mind wandered while he fought to get his heartrate under control. Thoughts of another strong, instinctive woman who had used that same tone on him – but no, this wasn’t the time to revisit that either. “That was me almost losing my shit,” he panted. 

“What the hell were you trying to do?”

“Open the door.” His face felt as hot as the door had been. “But I kinda got…um…lost. In my head. You got me out. Thanks.”

“Okay. Sure.” She sounded more than a little skeptical. “Just how were you planning on opening the door?”

He held up his hands ashamedly. “With these.” 

Naomi stared at his arms, at the symbols that decorated them. “Damn,” she whispered. “It’s true.” 

“Yeah, it’s true. The Chosen One, I know, I know.” 

She still looked at him quizzically. “I don’t get it. So yeah, you’re the one they’re all talking about, but how are a bunch of tattoos supposed to help?”

It was an honest question. Some days he still wondered. “These markings,” he pushed his sleeves up even further. “They’re not just tattoos. They have, I don’t know, some kind of power; I’m trying to learn how to use it. Unfortunately, they didn’t come with any instruction manual. I’m not too good with the control part of it yet.”

“Wow, yeah.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I’m no expert, but maybe you should practice on something bigger. Or smaller. Or…not a door.”

His head tipped back and he chortled in a kind of mental exhaustion. “You’re probably right.”

For a few moments they stood in silence. Alex scraped at the bits of paint on his fingers while he worked to get his breath back, to bring his pulse back to normal. “I had a thought,” Naomi offered after a time. “Maybe we leave the supernatural crap for another day and we try something different, like rushing it together. I know, so old-school, but sometimes it works.”

Alex nodded and pulled himself away from the door, still a bit wobbly. “Yeah,” he gave her a sheepish smile. “Let’s try.” 

Taking a few steps away, they both ran at the door, solidly connecting with shoulders, first once, then again. On the second time, the door gave way with a crack, opening suddenly inward and causing them both to tumble into the entrance way. They lay there laughing for a moment, a kind of welcome tension release, then they both scrambled to their feet and quickly scanned the darkened house.

Alex took the room to the right and instantly noticed it looked, well, odd. The large picture windows were covered by the shutters, barring almost all light save what came through the doorway, but even in the dimness he could see that the room was unlike those any of the houses they had been in before. The walls were completely bare and the furniture, what there was of it, was covered in sheets. Numerous large boxes stood lined against the wall as if at attention. He sniffed the air. Musty, but not bad, rather like a cave.

“Ohhh, dude,” Naomi said, her voice almost reverent. She stepped into the space on the left, finding much the same – covered chairs in a row against one unadorned wall, a table pushed against another. She slowly turned in a circle to see all of it in the dusky gloom. “Oh, dude, I think we just hit money.”

“What do you mean?”

She pulled out a flashlight and moved through the doorway in the rear of the room, rifle held at her side, trusting that she would not find anything to use it on. Her voice called from the area that Alex figured would be the kitchen. “There’s no food in here!”

“Isn’t that…bad?”

“No, that means there’s nothing to spoil. Nothing to rot. Everything’s in boxes and big plastic bins, it’s all in perfect shape! It’s like the people moved in their stuff but never actually lived here. It was locked up so tight that no one got in.” She came back into the front. “This place is a gold mine.” 

Randomly picking one of the boxes against the wall, she yanked on the dried-out packing tape. It ripped off easily, sending shards of dried adhesive floating into the air. Folding back the creaking cardboard top, she reached inside and extracted a shapeless form. Gently, she unwound the layers and layers of crackly bubble wrap to reveal a large, porcelain vase, a soft blue with delicate veins of metallic shine. “This is gorgeous. Completely and totally useless, but gorgeous.”

Alex lifted the sheet covering the sofa. Beneath, the fabric looked like silk, another subtle shade of blue. “Everything’s expensive looking. Probably belonged to command staff.”

“You think?” She fingered the vase. “I don’t know about that shit. Our command staff wouldn’t use anything like this – can you see Jenkins with one of these? No, I look for what we can use, not pretties.”

“Where I come from,” Alex explained, “we used to have people that lived really well. They had all sorts of ‘pretties.’”

“Weren’t you one of those people? I mean, being the Chosen One and all.”

Alex laughed, fatigue making him sound perhaps more bitter than he intended. He was never prepared for how exhausted he felt after using the tattoos. “No, just the opposite. I was one of their guards.”

“Oh, really.” Naomi’s brows raised suggestively. “Anything ever go missing?”

“Only the liquor. And the General’s daughter’s virtue.”

The sergeant giggled, a young-girl kind of sound that was a bit incongruous with her flack vest and assault rifle. “Naughty boy.” Her eyes flashed a mischievous grin but then her face softened into a smile. “You look tired. Why don’t I take the upper level and you can scout around down here? I’ll save you the stairs.”

Alex was about to protest but then he gave her a grateful look. He _was_ tired, unused to the walking and the searching. Sitting around doing nothing for days on end had done little to keep him in shape. He’d have to work on that. And then there was the drain from the use of his powers – he’d have to work on that, too.

He tried the first door in the hall, weapons-ready just in case. The door opened onto a small powder room. The sink had rusted where water had dripped for who-knew-how-long, the water in the toilet had eventually evaporated, and the mirror had discolored around the edges, but for the most part the space was in good condition. The contrast to the previous houses that they had been in, where mold and rot and decay were the norm, was remarkable. 

The next room was obviously supposed to be some kind of an office, given the desk, swivel chair and boxes and boxes of books. He’d have to ask Naomi what the Wildcats did with that kind of thing. Knowing his mother, he was sure they had a library of some kind.

He was twisting the handle on another door when an excited voice called to him from upstairs. “Alex, come here!”

He hurried that way, taking the stairs two at time, following her voice. “Where are you?” His rifle was up and ready. 

“In here,” she called from end of the hall. 

She stood just inside the master bedroom, her hands clasped together under her chin, grinning like a child with a basket of candy. “Look at it! A bed!”

Alex quickly took in the large room. Here, the windows were unshuttered and dingy golden sunlight partially filled the space. He could easily see the bed, a sturdy four-poster. A set of king-size mattresses lay on it, still swathed in plastic, a large red ribbon wrapped around them and tied into a time-flattened bow.

He let out a little sigh. “That’s sad. It must have been meant for a present, a surprise.”

“Don’t you get it?” She dropped her gun and ran over to the bed, leaping up on top and landing on her knees. “It’s wrapped up, it’s in perfect condition! I’ve been doing S&R for years and I’ve never seen anything like this. The stuff downstairs is great, but this!” She bounded around like a kid, a thin coating of dust rising up in faint clouds in the light that filtered through the dirty windows. 

Alex shook his head and laughed; the serious sergeant had completely disappeared, replaced by this bouncy, happy girl. He spotted yet another plastic bin in the corner. The handle cracked as he tried to open it, fragile after 25 years. Finally, he was able to get the top off and peer inside.

More plastic, this time vacuum bags, stacked one on top of each other. He pulled the top bag out. “You were talking about linens and blankets?”

If possible, Naomi’s eyes grew even brighter as she launched off the bed and across the floor toward him. “Let me see.”

He handed her another vacuum bag while he opened the first. The seals had held over all this time, and a rush of air expanded the bag that was brittle but still intact. He reached in and pulled out a king-size sheet, a rich claret hue, and as silky smooth as anything he had ever held.

Naomi had picked up a snowy white blanket, thick and luxurious. It looked like yards and yards of fluffy cloud as it billowed out of the bag. “Oh, my god,” she gushed, holding it up to her face, “this is amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so soft. I could sleep under this for days.” Buried in the blanket, her eyes took on an impish gleam. She turned suddenly and lofted the blanket over the bed. It settled there like a gently falling leaf.

Before Alex knew what she was doing, the sergeant had stripped off her flak vest, dropped her gun belt and pulled off her boots. She climbed onto the bed like a large cat, kneading the blanket beneath her, then rolled over onto her back and stretched luxuriously. “Oh, my god, it’s glorious.”

Alex felt his face flushing as red as the sheet that he held in his hands. He’d been surprised to see that underneath her flak vest, Naomi was wearing the long-sleeve jersey shirt that many of the Wildcats wore – that shirt and nothing else. As she arched her back in decadent pleasure, he couldn’t help but to see the curves of her ample breasts beneath the thin fabric. It was more than a little disconcerting.

He turned away and back toward the bin. “I’m sure there are other things here to find. Don’t you think we should keep searching?” he asked, trying not to be obvious as he forced himself to sort through the other vacuum-packed linens. “Oh, look, pillow cases.”

In answer, he could hear the crackle of the plastic underneath her as she rolled over on to her side. “We’ve done good, Alex, we can take a little break. Come here.” 

“I don’t think –”

“Stop thinking,” she interrupted. “If there’s one thing we learn growing up, it’s to take time to appreciate the little things. I don’t know what you have for beds in Vega, but I’ve never slept on anything this nice before.”

He glanced back toward the bed. It did look comfortable. “For most of my life I’ve slept on a cot, if I was lucky.”

“See? Come here,” she ran her hand over the softness of the blanket next to her. “It’s really nice. Here, just lay down, you’ll see. It’s awesome.”

Reluctantly, he set his gun in the corner near the headboard and unlatched his flak jacket. His belt, with his mother’s dagger, was placed on the table nearby.

“Shoes off,” she ordered. “God knows what we’ve been walking in.”

He sat on the side of the bed and started unlacing his boots. Already, he could appreciate the bed’s comfort. It cradled him just right, even sitting down.

Finally, he turned and swung his feet up, the plastic on the mattress rustling beneath him as he moved. He lay back, arms crossed beneath his head. 

It felt like laying on a cloud.

“Sweet, huh?”

He was quiet, his eyes closed, letting the sensation flow through him, a strange combination of sinking and weightlessness. The blanket was thick and soft and gentle against his skin. She was right; it was absolutely glorious.

“If we stay here too long, I’m not going to get up,” he admitted.

“We don’t have to go anywhere for a while.” Naomi’s drawled, her voice low and dreamy. “I’m lead on this mission and I say we can stay here and enjoy this.”

They lay there silently, drowsily basking in the late afternoon sunshine as it filtered through the dusty windows. The sexual tension that had whispered between them had settled into an easy companionship in the hazy glow. 

“I want to apologize.” Naomi said after a time, her voice hushed. It seemed wrong to speak too loudly in that safe space. “I treated you pretty shitty this morning.”

“Don’t worry about it. I get it, I’m a stranger, I don’t know your ways. And…I can be kind of an asshole.”

She laughed softly. “That may be true, but I should have given you more of a chance. You proved yourself even though I didn’t. You don’t complain, you’re willing to get dirty, you swing a mean machete. You make a good partner, Lannon. If this Chosen One thing doesn’t work out, there may be a future for you in S&R.”

Now he laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“I guess,” Alex answered. “Sure.”

Naomi turned toward him and propped herself up on one elbow. “How’d you get them? I mean, your tattoos.”

She’s been remarkably accepting of his behavior outside the door. He’d expected her to grill him before, questioning him ad nauseum about what he was trying (and failing) to do, about his markings, about his role as the Chosen One, but she’d only suggested that they put their combined shoulders to the door and force it open. That had been the last of it.

Until now.

He figured he owed her something of an explanation. “Michael the Archangel gave them to my dad, Jeep. They transferred over to me when Jeep died.”

“What do they feel like? Are they like wires or something?”

“No, not like wires, it’s not like hardware. They’re just markings, more like regular tattoos, not really on my skin but in it. Michael says that they’re God’s last words, but nobody really seems to be able to read them very well.”

When he finally looked over at her, she was watching him with wide hazel eyes, inquisitive more than anything else.

“I guess –” He shrugged. There was really only one way to explain things. He sat up and pulled his shirt over his head. He spread his arms open, then let them drop to the sides.

Naomi sat up, her eyes now huge, a little half-smile of excitement tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve never seen anything like that before, they’re…they’re beautiful.”

Alex sighed. “People keep telling me that.”

“But they are.” She climbed to her knees to peer at his back. “You can’t read them at all?”

“Some. A little. Michael has figured out some things, like the one that said that Lucifer was coming back.”

She traced a tentative finger over his collarbone, following the lines and whorls, and he flinched away from her touch – it tickled. “What did you mean about using them?” she asked. “Like a spell or something?”

“No. I don’t know, somehow they have powers or can channel powers – I’m not completely sure how it works yet.” He smirked, remembering the abortive attempt on the door. “Well…obviously.”

Her hand slipped over his shoulder and she gave him a supportive squeeze. “You’ll figure it out, I know you will.”

“You have a lot of faith for someone you just met this morning.”

“I like to think I’m a good judge of character. Well, ok, maybe not _immediately_ ,” she laughed, but then sobered. Her hand trailed down now, the fingertips resting on the left side of his chest. “Who is she?”

He sat back, breaking the physical bond. “What are you talking about?”

“Really? The two of us alone, in this huge bed, and you haven’t made the slightest move. You’re not gay – I saw the way you looked at me before – so there’s really only two other options. Either you’re involved with someone, or you’re getting over someone.”

Alex could feel the heat rising in his cheeks again. He hated that he was so simple to read, people always knew what he was thinking: Claire, Michael, his mother. He knew he wore his emotions like a sign.

“It’s complicated,” he said, facing away. “There was someone, she died, and then someone else…” It was still so hard to believe that Noma had turned her back on him, on Michael, on everyone. “She left.”

Gentle fingertips pulled his chin back so that he was looking at her. “Then she was an idiot.”

He couldn’t help but to grin shamefacedly. Some days, that was exactly what he thought.

She leaned in until her face was next to his. “I’m no idiot,” she whispered into his ear. Then, without warning, she crossed her arms at her waist, tugged at her shirt, wriggled a bit, and pulled it up over her head. With a devilish expression, she tossed it across the room.

“Wh-what the hell are you doing?”

“Evening things up,” she announced, laying back on her elbows. “You didn’t have a shirt on, now I don’t either.”

Alex’s eyes moved of their own accord, taking in her flat stomach, her round, full breasts, everything the tight shirt had promised and more. Whether he wanted it to or not, his body reacted, his mouth falling slack, his breath coming shorter.

“I – I don’t think –”

“I told you, stop thinking.” She reached up and ran her fingers up his bare chest; this time it definitely did not tickle. His body was primed with basic desire, his skin so sensitive that her touch felt more like tendrils of fire. “Nobody can promise us tomorrow, Alex. I’m not asking for a commitment, I’m just asking for now. And not because you’re the Chosen One.” She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer, her breasts now pressed against him. Again, her voice breathed into his ear, low and sensual. “But because I’ve been thinking about this all…day…long.”

Alex felt himself groan involuntarily, a sound of both pleasure and exasperation. He closed his eyes, trying to will himself the fortitude to resist…to pull himself out of Naomi’s arms, to pull away from the mouth that was gently exploring the side of his neck, to remember why he was there, why they were all there…

…and failed.

She was right, nobody promised him tomorrow. And today he was slowly being wrapped up by this strong, sensual, remarkable woman, put into a wrestling hold and gradually drawn down onto a cloud-like blanket on top of a marvel of a bed. 

Resistance was just plain stupid.

With one hand he grasped her pony tail and tugged it out, letting her long hair fall free. Then he twined his fingers in the soft strands, lifting her head up to his. His mouth met hers with a frustrated hunger, a need that had been unfulfilled for too long. She responded in kind, hot and eager. When his hands ran over her body, when his fingers brushed over her breasts, she moaned.

In an unexpected movement she was on top, straddling him, pressing down on his hips, gently rolling, and Alex knew there was no going back. He grasped at the bounty of her generous breasts and she arched her back in response. Beneath his mouth, her nipples hardened into tiny, warm pebbles.

Her thighs tightened on his hips and the rolling turned into a thrust. She leaned down, running her tongue from his clavicle to his ear. “These pants,” she purred, “have to go.”

It was a short minute before they were both naked and she was laying on the bed, Alex poised above her. He was ready, he was so ready he was near bursting, and yet something held him back. 

“What is it?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Do you think you’re being unfaithful?”

Emotions flickered over his features, too fast to read. To many for him to understand. 

“You said she left. Did you ask her to leave?”

“No – no, I wanted her to stay. Forever. She wanted…something else.”

Her hand turned his face toward her. “Forever’s a long way off. No promises, remember? We only have today, we have right here, right now.” She pulled him down into a kiss, a kiss more gentle and yet more full of want than anything he had ever felt. “I don’t care if you close your eyes and pretend I’m her, I just want to make this amazing.”

He lowered himself onto her, felt her body wrap around his; she was warm, incredibly warm and supple and inviting. Legs tightened around his hips, nails dug gently into his back, their rhythm slow and even, building. She bit gently at his earlobe, his neck, then bit harder as their rhythm increased. The plastic on the bed rustled beneath them; she laughed, tightened her legs and pushed her hips even higher.

Alex’s back tightened, relaxed, then tightened again. His head tilted back, a silent cry. Naomi danced her fingertips down his chest and the sensation was almost too much. He grasped her hands, forcing them to the side, pinning them to the bed. He opened his eyes and stared down at her. She looked back at him with unspoken understanding – they were there, together, in this moment. There would be no pretending. Her lips open sensually, he could feel her breasts pushing against him as her breath came faster and faster, her body lifting more and more with each thrust of his hips. 

Their gaze never left each other’s, almost daring the other to look away. Alex could see the shivers of delight that started to roll through her, first small, then growing. His own excitement mounting, he wouldn’t be able to –

It hit him like a thunderclap, his body arching back, nearly lifting him off the bed. Beneath him, Naomi cried out, an animal sound of pleasure and release that only served to intensify his own.

He fell against her, his body limp, completely void of strength. She laughed again and softly kissed his sweaty neck. “Mission accomplished.”

They stayed that way for a few minutes until he found the strength to roll off of her. The blanket beneath him was crumpled but still so very soft. He lay stretched out, his eyes closed, letting the air dry the sweat off his chest and legs. Somehow it seemed much warmer in the room than it had been before.

Alex was the first to break the hush in the room. “How do you know just the right thing to say to me?”

“What?”

He turned over on his side. Naomi lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. 

“Earlier, when I, you know, when I was trying to open the door. And just now, you knew what to say.”

“You mean when you got lost again.”

He thought about it. “I guess so.”

She half-turned toward him. “I knew a guy like you once. He would do the same thing, get caught up in his own thoughts, lose his direction. Sometimes I had to kick him in the ass, sometimes I had to push him.”

“Who was he?”

She turned all the way toward him, a sad smile now softly coloring her features. “My husband, Rick. He died about ten years ago.”

“But – “

“Yeah,” she drawled out, interrupting him. “I’m older than you think.”

Alex turned onto his back again. The long rays of the autumn afternoon had wended their way through the trees outside, leaving dappled pools of gold and shadow on Naomi’s light brown skin. In that pale light, he’d seen something he’d missed in the throes of their passion; the marks, the scars, crisscrossing her body, on her arms and legs, her abdomen. At least a dozen that he could see, all sorts of wounds – long slices, puckered holes, memories of war that would never disappear.

Older and more experienced.

“Were you thinking about him, about Rick just now?”

“Maybe, a little.” Her hand reached across and settled on his chest. “What was her name, the idiot that left you?”

“Noma.” It was good to say it, to get her name out. 

And that’s where he left it. He reached over and pulled Naomi into his arms. She snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder. Her fingertips mindlessly played over his tattoos, tracing them across his chest and shoulder as he twined his hands through her long hair.

“I meant what I said,” she spoke up after a while. “I’m not looking for a commitment. This was just about today. I’m not going to hold you to anything in the future and I expect the same of you.”

“‘Nobody can promise us tomorrow’” he quoted. “I understand.” He did now, knowing about her husband’s death. Deep within the uninhibited, self-assured soldier he held in his arms was a fragile woman who was afraid to lose anyone else she loved. He appreciated the confidence she had placed in him.

She sat up and ran her hands along the blanket, letting off a little sigh. Her eyes drifted off toward the window. “Sun’s going down soon, we should get this place inventoried and get back to base.”

Alex nodded, sitting up and reaching for his pants. He slipped them on and looked around for his socks.

Naomi came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks. That was amazing.”

He could feel her breasts against the bare skin of his back and instantly thoughts of a repeat performance came to mind. Instead, he smiled. “My pleasure. _Really_.”

She laughed and squeezed him tight before letting go. “Friends?”

He turned to see her putting on her shirt, pulling it down over the scars and marks. “Yeah. I don’t have a lot of those around here. I can always use more.”


	5. Chapter 5

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 11_

The sun was streaming through the window of the infirmary when Michael arrived, giving the institutional walls an almost cheery glow. Jenkins’ people had done much to clean the large room, to eliminate any possible contaminates, and it had been remarkably well-preserved to begin with, all in all a very good space for a hospital ward.

There was only one problem – he had the terrible feeling that the space would either be woefully inadequate or…never able to be used. Neither was exactly the outcome he was looking for.

For the time being, however, it still held only the one occupant. He’d spent most of the day before hovering near Laurel’s side, watching her sleep, bothering the doctor’s for updates. Now he stood once again in the doorway, watching for signs of movement on the low bed, listening for a change in her breath, her heartbeat, and thinking about the child…

 _His_ child.

Laurel rolled over onto her side, her body stiff from the minimal support of the canvas cot. She considered trying to get back to sleep, then gave up – she’d been sleeping and resting for more than a day now. Her back hurt, her neck was sore and there was a pain between her shoulder blades that no amount of repositioning was going to get rid of. She sat up, twisting left and right, her nose wrinkled up in irritation. 

Michael was suddenly at her bedside. “Are you in pain?”

She grimaced. “No. I mean yes.” She simultaneously stretched one arm across her body and waved away his concern. “I’ve been laying down too long, I’m not used to it. I’m just achy.”

He frowned. “The child?”

“She’s fine. Kicking, in fact. I think she’s hungry.” She looked up at him drolly. “And bored.”

“Is she?” Michael asked, the corner of his mouth curling up just a bit, catching her mood. “We should probably do something about that. Nutrition and enrichment are both important for children.”

“They are,” she nodded her head with mock seriousness, then fell into a laugh. “Seriously, I’m bored silly. Any way I could go outside or something? I’d like to get out of this place for a little while.”

Michael considered the request. “I need to verify this with the doctor, but you seem in good health.”

“I’m fine, really.” She pointed to a knapsack on a nearby cot. “They brought my stuff; I have some other clothes and shoes I can put on. Can’t I just go for a walk?”

There were other concerns. Jenkins had not specifically said that Laurel was restricted to the infirmary; however, Michael doubted the newcomer was to be granted access to the entire base. 

That said, the archangel was not about to let her out of his sight. “Let me talk to the doctor and get you something to eat. I will come back and we will…” he paused, as if the notion was foreign to him, “…we will go for a walk.”

The mid-morning sun was bright but not overly warm, and Michael insisted that Laurel take a blanket with her. She was about to argue – she didn’t need a minder, she wasn’t cold, thank you very much, her barn jacket worked just fine, and besides, the baby inside kept her quite warm – but then she saw his look of genuine concern. The retort died on her lips and she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders gratefully.

Once outside the building, she slipped her hand inside Michael’s elbow. He looked down at it, then at her, and she smiled up at him, a certain sparkle in her eyes. “This is the proper way to take a walk with your girl.”

He gave her the barest twitch of a brow, then rested his other hand on top of hers. 

They wended their way past numerous structures, some little more than rusted hulks of corrugated sheet metal, others more sturdily built of concrete block and brick. Everywhere the grass and weeds had done their best to try to reclaim the area, to creep over walls and through smashed windows, to spread across drives and streets, but it would still be a few eons before time could erase man’s footprints here.

The Wildcats had crews in many of the buildings, working on everything from storage to salvage, and while Laurel seemed interested, asking a question here or there, Michael did not see any overt display of curiosity that might indicate that she was on some kind of spy mission for Lucifer. After a half hour or so, he could feel tension ease from his body, tension he hadn’t even known he’d been holding.

Eventually they reached a tall glass and brick building that had been one of the main administration centers before the war. Many of the windows were shattered or missing, and the whole place had a forlorn air. A broken flagpole stretched across what was left of a concrete courtyard, now cracked and covered with grass and weeds. 

To the side, however, there lay an inviting patch of green beneath a pair of trees. A dark slab of lichen-covered stone stood at one side. Laurel tugged at his arm. “Let’s sit down there for a little while.”

Michael was instantly concerned. “Are you tired?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m pregnant, not a china doll.” She pulled the blanket off her shoulders and spread it out on the ground. “You don’t have to worry about me so much, I just thought it would be nice to sit in the sunshine.”

Laurel crawled onto the blanket and leaned up against the stone. She turned and rubbed at the lichen, exposing a few of the words. “Army Materiel Command.”

Michael nodded as he sat beside here. “This was a major complex for the American military before the Extermination War. I can’t imagine the chaos here when the angels first fell.”

The crease of concern returned to Laurel’s brow. Her gaze travelled up, found the sun in the sky, then drifted toward the south. “We’ve been so lucky in Mallory. We missed most of what happened to the rest of the world.”

“Yes, yes you were.” He tried to keep any kind of inflection out of his voice, any condemnation or judgement. 

They sat that way for a few minutes, the sounds of the migrating birds and the barking of feral dogs mixing with the noises of the Wildcat war machine behind them. Laurel continued to frown, to look off into the distance.

She took a breath, as if to speak, then halted. Michael waited.

“Back in Mallory,” she started again, “you said that you couldn’t hear our Father.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“I understand now why that was so important to you. I mean, knowing that you’re an archangel, yes, but even more.” She twisted her hands together, worrying at the hem of her shirt. “I was praying last night, praying to our Father, and…and I realized something – I haven’t heard His voice for days. Before, back home, He didn’t always respond, but I would hear Him eventually. Now…nothing. I feel like I’ve done something wrong.”

Her arms wrapped around her body protectively. “After you…left, I tried to make some sense of what was going on. I was confused, I didn’t know if you were dead or not, and I felt like the Prophet had lost his way. I prayed and I prayed, trying to sort it out, waiting for an answer, and I eventually got one - Father told me to leave Mallory. I thought He was trying to save me from the Prophet, but now…now I don’t know. I did everything that He said to do.” She looked up at Michael. “I don’t get it, why can’t I hear Him?”

Michael could see the worry, the fear in her face. The decision was quickly made – this was not the time to disillusion her of her beliefs. That time would come soon enough.

“I wish I could give you an answer,” he told her. It was not a lie. He wished he knew why Lucifer no longer spoke to her almost as much as he wished he knew why his true Father no longer spoke to any of them. 

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I know you do. I know you wish you could have heard His voice all of these years.”

He leaned back against the stone of the sign and she settled in against him. Now it was his turn to look thoughtful. “We’ve spoken briefly about what you have been taught in Mallory, your… ‘religion’. Can you tell me more?”

“It’s really more than a religion. We had people in Mallory with all sorts of religions – well, you saw the church – but none of those were going to save us. The Prophet showed up in town the second day of the War – we were already being attacked by eight-balls - and he said that he could save us. He helped us to build the fire outside the church, and it did, it saved the town. 

“My father was the pastor at the time; we’d just come to Mallory. He was the first to work with the Prophet, to listen to his words and teach them to the people. The Prophet asked for us to become a people dedicated to song, service and sacrifice, and in return, he promised that the fire would not go out, that it would burn as long as we held the faith, as long as necessary to keep the eight-ball army away.”

“Your father agreed to this?”

She looked at him seriously. “How could he not? We’re talking about the lives of everyone in town, every man, woman and child, and he had the chance to save them. My father was a hero, he saved us, too.”

“Then the sacrifices continued.”

“The _Celebration_ continued,” she corrected. “Yes, every five years.”

“And your people, your leaders went along with it.

“Yes, for the most part. It seemed a small price to pay for the lives of everyone in Mallory.”

Michael’s brows raised, waiting for her to finish what was obviously the beginning of a thought.”

“There were people that…” she sighed, “…that couldn’t take the responsibility.”

“You mean they couldn’t kill themselves.”

She shook her head. “No, more than that. They couldn’t _sacrifice_ themselves. Wes’s father was one. He ran away just before the Celebration. The fire went out, the eight-balls tore into the town, it was a massacre. Wes’s father was killed by the Sheriff, but that didn’t make things any better, the fire still refused to burn. Finally, Mona Cole – Harper’s mother, you remember her? Mona declared herself for the sacrifice, she saved us.

Michael thought about this silently. Not merely a death was required, a _suicide_. “You were willing to do this, to die, to save your people?”

“Of course. What more could I do for them but that? It’s the highest honor.”

“And yet you left.”

Laurel sat back, wrapping her arms around her stomach again. “I couldn’t take a chance, not until she’s born. I’ll sacrifice myself but not…not an innocent.”

“Do you think the Prophet would ask for that?”

Her head shook in tiny jerks. “I… I don’t know. We’ve trusted him for so long. We trusted him when he asked for our lives, but he delivered, he saved the town when everywhere else…well, you’ve seen it, you know what Gabriel and the eight-balls have done to the world.”

“I have.” He grimaced, as if there was a bad taste in his mouth. His twin and his legions had been more than thorough. “Which is why I’m trying to understand why Mallory was spared. Why Mallory? Why not a town in California or Wisconsin? Why there?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. The Prophet said that we were chosen, that’s all I know.”

“Chosen.” Michael pursed his lips. “That sounds familiar.”

Laurel frowned. “I know that it sounds insane, sitting here so far away, discussing sacrifices and deaths. But when there are eight-balls in the hills behind your farm, when you can hear them screaming in that awful language all night long, when they kill and steal your cattle and threaten your children, you’re willing to do just about anything to keep yourselves safe.”

He did understand. Desperate times. He’d begged Lucifer to save Gabriel from the Darkness and later, in that dream-state, made his own wager with the Prophet.

Occasionally, the only option was to make a deal with the Devil.

“Do you remember when you were in Mallory?” Laurel pulled his hand into hers. “Do you remember the children laughing, the women talking over their vegetable gardens? Do you remember seeing the men out in the fields working?”

He nodded.

“Do you remember how peaceful it felt? I mean, not when we were attacked, obviously.” She smiled. “But the rest of the time, just how tranquil it was there?”

“It was…” He sighed, remembering how difficult it had been to leave. “Idyllic.”

“Exactly. Our people, for the most part, are trusting and kind. The few sins we have we confess, and our hearts are pure again, ready for that life of singing and service.”

“And sacrifice.”

“Yes. Sacrifice. But that life, and the life our Father promised to us was worth it.”

He noted the past tense in her statement. “Was? Would you go back?”

“I don’t know." She dropped her head. “Long ago, the Prophet promised us peace, peace over the entire Earth, if we would keep faith. We all assumed that he meant the end of the eight-balls, that if we followed his teachings, that if we performed the Celebration every five years, eventually…”

“Eventually there would be no need.”

She nodded. “Yes. I don’t know what’s happened to change that, I don’t know why I can’t hear our Father anymore, but if He told me to go back, if he told me that I was necessary to save Mallory, to save humanity…” Her voice trailed off. “I desperately want to have a life with you, with our child, but I’ve spent the last five years knowing that my time would come. I’m okay with that.”

“You still believe this, after what you’ve seen? After the Prophet has asked for more sacrifices?”

When she looked back up at him her eyes shone with a faint glisten of tears, but behind that they were steadfast. “If it takes my life to save hundreds or thousands, _to save our daughter_ , how can I say no? Father has a plan, I don’t know what it is, but if I’m to be part of it, I’ll play my part.”

Michael put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to him. His mind was reeling. Obviously, this voice that Laurel heard was not actually Father. Nonetheless, he had to wonder – was Lucifer offering an end to the eight-ball scourge, offering a lasting peace for Mallory, possibly for the rest of the world with this “plan” Laurel spoke of?

What if it was true? What if the first archangel did have some way to send the lower angels back to the aether, out of the bodies they had stolen decades before? Michael had certainly never been able to do it, and the Amphora of Darkness, the only item that _might_ have been useful somehow, had been destroyed. Gabriel had given up his control of the hoard, and Alex had only been able to evict a few angels at a time.

What if Lucifer had the power to evict them all? What if he _would_ have the power, but did not yet, and for some reason he needed the _sacrifices_ to help him obtain that power?

It was like looking at the world through a mirror, where everything that was right was suddenly left, or was it wrong? 

His mind kept going back to the Celebration, the sacrifice. It felt so innately abhorrent, and yet…was he not asking Alex to be willing to do exactly the same thing? Were not every one of the Wildcats willing to give their lives for their fellow men?

Had Gabriel not forfeited himself to the mob in New Haven just two weeks ago in Michael’s stead?

He held Laurel a little tighter, rocking ever so gently, a soothing, calming motion. Perhaps it would help calm the torrent of thoughts running through his head.

Gabriel found his twin leaving the hospital ward. Laurel had been returned to her bed, tired but happy to have been out in the fresh air. Michael, however, was less than sanguine. A familiar scowl was painted over his features and he nearly walked past before he glanced up.

“You’ve that pensive, constipated look about you again, brother,” Gabriel quipped. “What worries you now?”

Michael waved him away with a dismissive gesture and kept walking. He needed time alone, time to think. He’d been offered a life that he’d never expected, never even imagined that he’d wanted – a woman he loved, a child, a _family_ – and now he knew he wanted it more than… He dared not compare. 

Yet he risked losing it all: losing Laurel back to Mallory, to Lucifer, or losing everything in a war that might not need to be fought. His head swam with thoughts, his heart ached.

Gabriel’s fingers clamped onto Michael’s forearm, stopping him. “Brother. We need to talk.”

“Not now.” He glanced down at hand on his arm and then up at his twin. “Not,” he enunciated slowly, “now.”

“Then when?” Gabriel asked, nonetheless releasing his hold. “Jenkins is readying his next little ‘activity.’” He said the last word with a certain amount of distaste, obviously less than enthusiastic. “He wants both of us to be involved.”

“I don’t want to be involved.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Michael sighed. “I said I don’t want to be involved.”

There was a long, tense pause. Gabriel’s gaze flicked from his brother to the hospital door and back again. “So that’s it, you retire from the war? You’re giving up? We’re here to fight Lucifer – on the crusade you started, I must say – and you’ve decided you don’t want to play anymore?”

Michael shook his dark head. “It’s not like that. I wish you would try to understand. Things are different now, with Laurel, with the child on the way. I’m not sure…I’m not sure that we should be fighting Lucifer. Perhaps…perhaps he does have a plan for Earth.”

“A plan? _A plan?_ You are the one who said Lucifer’s plan was to kill Alex so that he could obtain his physical presence. Who knows what he has in store after that?”

“I know that, but perhaps I was mistaken. The Prophet only said he wanted Alex to come to him, he never said what for. We’ve made assumptions. Remember that Lucifer saved you, brother. He saved you from the Darkness.”

Gabriel threw his hands in the air, completely flabbergasted. “Father in Heaven, I can’t believe what you’re saying. You’re Alex’s guardian, you have been since he was born, you’ve saved his life a hundred times over, and now you’re ready to take the chance that Lucifer just wants to be chums?”

“Laurel said the Prophet talked about peace on earth. Raphael spoke of the same.”

“Raphael was a raving lunatic! And the Prophet is culling the people of Mallory for additional sacrifices to our bloodthirsty brother. Are these the ones you want to trust with your future?”

“We can’t go on this way; I can’t do this.” Michael scowled. “I’m…I’m going to be a father.”

“I _am_ a father!” Gabriel shouted back. “I have been before, I lost that child, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose this one!”

Michael rested his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I understand how you feel.”

Gabriel brushed off the gesture angrily. His eyes were hard. “No – you – don’t.”

“Laurel and I – “

“Laurel…” Gabriel cut him off, the name sounding like a particularly distasteful act. “You’re too close, brother. You can’t see it. You can’t see that she’s warped your thoughts.”

“Warped? She’s here, carrying my child. She’s brought me the greatest gift I could imagine.”

“She’s brought you a shiny new collar and leash. You’re her pet archangel now.”

Michael looked away, down at the ground, his jaw thrust petulantly forward and his head shaking from side to side. “Don’t do this, Gabriel. Don’t make me choose.”

“There is no choice, Michael. You have a duty and a responsibility, and it is not to this woman who so conveniently showed up here claiming she’s having your baby!”

The fist that struck Gabriel’s face came out of nowhere, as fast and as hard as a freight train. He stumbled backward a few steps, then wiped at the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. It came away smeared with blood. “We’re going to do this again, are we?” 

Michael glared at him, his countenance filled with all the violent threat of a summer thunderstorm, dark and looming. Gabriel thought he could almost see flashes of lightning behind his brother’s blue eyes.

His lip curled up in malevolent pleasure; the pain was worth getting some kind of reaction out of Michael. “You’ll have to do better than that, brother. Unless Laurel has turned God’s Sword into a butter knife.”

The second blow sent Gabriel reeling, losing his balance and falling onto his backside. He sat for a moment, shaking his head to try to get rid of the dancing lights that had suddenly appeared behind his eyes, then tentatively tried his jaw. Stiff, but still working. He spat out a gobbet of blood. “Face it, Michael, she’s turned you away from your mission. You’re a milquetoast angel, little more than a human these days. Soon the two of you will be sitting at Lucifer’s feet, waiting for his commands like a couple of spaniels.”

Hands reached down and grasped the sides of his chest plate, lifting him easily off the ground. Michael glared up at him with icy black fury. His voice was so low it could hardly be heard. “Watch your words, brother.”

It was an eerie echo of what Gabriel had said just a few days before. He looked down into his brother’s cold, cold eyes. “She’s Lucifer’s whore, Michael, here to seduce you once again.”

Gabriel sailed inelegantly across the room, arms and legs flailing, until he crashed into the wall far down the hallway. The plaster around him cracked and fell, a miniature snowfall that covered him in dust and chips of pale green paint. He lay there dazed, painfully gathering the breath that had been knocked out of him when he landed.

Michael advanced on him immediately, drawing his sword as he approached. He didn’t wait for his brother to rise but put the edge of the blade against the side of Gabriel’s long neck. 

Still crumpled in a heap, Gabriel attempted to extend his legs, to get some kind of control over his limbs. He tried to laugh, but it was difficult in that position, and it came out more as more of a cough. The blade scratched against his skin, cutting ever so slightly. “So, he _is_ still in there,” he wheezed. “My twin, the Angel of Action.”

“I should kill you for what you’ve said.”

“Is that what you want to do, brother? Is that what Lucifer wants you to do?”

The realization struck like an electrical shock. Michael stood up, pulling his sword away, but his face was still set in a scowl. “What are you trying to prove? That I can beat you?”

Gabriel laughed again, holding one side of his ribs for support. “No. Only that you’ve forgotten your true nature. Your instinct is to fight with the lions, not to lie down with sheep.”

The other angel turned away, sheathing his sword. “I’m not going to turn my back on my family like you did,” he spat out. “I have a chance to be something different.”

“Do you honestly think Lucifer is going to allow this fictional happy ending of yours?” His head fell back heavily against the cracked plaster. “We tried to destroy him, Michael, he’s not about to forget that.”

Michael was about to respond when another voice rang from the other end of the hall. “Archangels!” Mouse advanced on them, her tiny body set with purpose. “Is there a problem?”

“We’re in for it now,” Gabriel whispered, half to himself.

Mouse looked over at the cracked and broken wall where the archangel had landed, the steel beam peeking through the exposed plaster. She could see the blood that ran down the side of Gabriel’s face. “I had a report about noise, I didn’t expect…this.”

Michael’s ominous gaze flicked back and forth between her and his brother. “We had a disagreement. It is none of your concern.”

“It sure as hell is my concern,” she countered. “A disagreement is talking, maybe even shouting, it’s not trying to take down a reinforced wall.” She rubbed her forehead in frustration. Neither of the archangels had a reply. “Whatever’s going on between the two of you, I wish you’d get it sorted. Commander Jenkins wants you both to report to him.”

Never taking his eyes off his twin, Michael silently rubbed at the knuckles of his right hand. Then, with a huff of finality, he fixed the collar of his coat, shrugging the shoulders back in place. As he walked away, he left a trail of sullen superiority that was almost visible.

Mouse stared after him incredulously, then turned back to his brother, still sprawled on the ground. “I don’t believe this, is he going to show up or not? Jenkins is getting pissed.”

“I don’t know.” Gabriel sighed. Provoking Michael hadn’t been as successful as he had hoped. “I have no idea what he’s going to do.”

“Like if he’s going to use you for a wrecking ball again?” She kicked at a piece of plaster on the floor. “You guys have a great relationship.”

He would have appreciated the sarcasm if it were at all true. Right now, he thought, things were nearly as bad with Michael as when the Extermination War had started. “He’s done worse to me, and I to him.”

“And yet I didn’t see a mark on him.” She reached over and pushed the hair up in the corner of his forehead. The wound there was thankfully small, a typical head wound, bleeding more than it warranted. “We should get you a bandage for that.” She held out an arm to help him balance. “Can you get up?”

He brushed off her concern with an impatient wave of his raw-knuckled hand and climbed painfully to one knee. A muffled grunt escaped his lips as he paused there.

It took a moment but he forced himself to stand upright, grimaced, and twisted painfully to right his armor. It would have protected him from individual blows from fist or sword but hitting a wall was something different. He let out another short groan and rubbed at his ribs. 

“So, tell me,” Mouse looked up at him as she put a supportive arm around his waist, “why is it that you seem to be taking all the beatings lately?” 

_How had this little slip of a thing turned into his medic,_ he thought, _his confessor?_

His eyes raised heavenward.

“Penance.”

Jenkin’s only reaction to the archangel’s bruised cheek and obviously tender ribs was a silent questioning glance at his XO. Mouse shook her head, rolled her eyes, and mumbled something to the effective of “ _goddamn archangels”_ that more than explained things.

They had no choice but to work late into the night. The plan for the next day was a combined aerial reconnaissance, both electronic and angelic, and would involve a large support staff working in concerted effort. Whether they had Michael’s input or not, it was important to determine how many were answering the Prophet’s call to arms, who had gathered in the area around Mallory, and what they were – human or eight-ball. It was a considerable challenge.

The MQ-1C Grey Eagle that Mouse had found was perfect for this operation. Based on the original Predator drone, it was imposing, loud and unexpected. Originally scheduled to be shipped to the Persian Gulf aboard a carrier with other materiel, it had never left the Arsenal. It had still been in its container and needed assembly prior to use, but Jenkins had had crews working 36-hours straight putting all the various pieces and parts together, running diagnostics and organizing whatever flight crew he could find. The Wildcats were lucky – S&R had a considerable collection of military and civilian computers and software stashed in secure locations that they could call up, as well as techs to run it. They also had a few actual airplane pilots, not just drone pilots. This endeavor would take the combined talents of all of them.

It was decided that the Wildcats would fly the Grey Eagle directly over Mallory in a relatively low flight path. There it would both gather information and act as a point of interest, hopefully bringing many of the inhabitants out to look. Jenkins recalled how effective the sound and light show they had put on at the ranch had been, pulling almost everyone out of the various buildings and allowing a good estimation of the numbers there. The UAV was large, with a wingspan over fifty feet, and nothing like it had been seen for twenty-five years; with luck, it would do the same.

While the big drone circled, Gabriel would be flying on an oblique angle, his excellent vision searching for more subtle information – were there still women and children in the town, had any equipment been hidden, where were the eight-balls located? With both types of surveillance, they hoped to get an accurate idea of exactly what they were up against.

Not long after dawn the next day, Gabriel stood with Jenkins outside the hangar building. He would leave before the drone was launched. Crews had been working overtime to clear the short runway that ran along one side of the yard. The UAV’s didn’t need as much takeoff space as a conventional aircraft but they were still essentially small airplanes and needed at least 3000 feet of clear pavement to get up to speed.

“You put quite a lot of faith in your toys,” Gabriel growled while he fit the earpiece a comm officer had handed him. “Model airplanes and tiny radios.”

Jenkins held the blocky transmitter part of the radio, unsure where the archangel would want to attach it. “That’s why we’re sending you up, too.”

Gabriel took the radio, scowled, then fixed it to the back of his waistband. Michael might be comfortable with the technology but he hated these electronic tethers. “Am I the primary or the back-up here?”

The commander gave him a meaningful stare. It had been a long night, he was tired and in no mood for massaging an archangel’s ego. “We need both you and the drone up there. We could have used your brother, too. We need all the information we can get.”

Gabriel rubbed the side of his head, felt the last bits of dried blood. He’d tried, tried to get through to Michael. Although he had recovered quickly, his body still ached from the ‘discussion.’ “It would seem that Michael has other priorities these days.”

There was an undercurrent of some emotion in Gabriel’s voice that Jenkins wasn’t quite sure he could decipher. Anger? Jealousy? Whatever it was, he didn’t have time to play psychologist. “Look, I know that you’re not used to taking commands, but for this part of the mission, I need to be the big dog.”

The archangel sighed. He’d never really taken orders from anyone but Father…and Michael. This, however, was a completely different situation. So far Jenkins had been the perfect co-conspirator, both including the two archangels in decision making as well as supporting much of what they proposed. It was only right that the human commander would take the lead in this – his equipment, his mission. “Yes, I understand,” Gabriel grudgingly admitted.

A young sergeant ran up. “Drone is ready for takeoff, sir.”

Jenkins clapped Gabriel on the shoulder. “Alright then, you might as well get going. Let us know when you’re fifty miles out or so. Safe journeys.”

With an indulgent tip of his head, Gabriel unfurled his great black wings, stretching them majestically. Then, like the rockets that had been housed not far away, he launched upward.

Jenkins looked after him, his hand held to his eyes against the early morning glare, watching the angel’s figure grow smaller and smaller in the sky. It still gave him pause, this strange, strange situation – he was working with Gabriel, working with the archangel that only a few months before had been his most hated enemy.

And worst of all, he rather liked the arrogant bastard.

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 12_

_Near Mallory_

Gabriel had been up in the air for a few hours now, yet it wasn’t nearly long enough. Perhaps a month up there, up in the unending vault of the blue, blue sky might have been enough, might have helped sort things in his head, but he wasn’t going to get that. 

At least not in the near future.

Flying had always been his escape, his way to get above the noise and confusion, especially the noise and confusion of his own heart. It had been a shame when mankind had finally developed its own flying machines, invading the space that he had shared for so very long with only the birds. For a century, he had dreaded coming to Earth in his angelic form, hated the thought that wherever he went, wherever he flew, he might be seen by an airplane or spotted on some infernal radar. It was claustrophobic, restrictive, infuriating.

That had all ended, in rather dramatic fashion, with the start of the Extermination War. A pleasant side effect he hadn’t been expecting, but the first time he had taken to the air and seen nary a contrail nor heard the far-off whine of a jet engine, he had been thrilled. The sky was his once again. 

Today it was cerulean blue from horizon to horizon, with the gentlest of breezes wafting through the cool air, and just a hint of the sharp, clean tang of the surf not far away. The fields of long grasses were a perfect golden brown and the trees were just beginning to be tinged with the bronze and crimson of fall. It was glorious.

Glorious, but not perfect. Today he was also sharing the heavens with the humans’ little spy plane, the drone that did exactly that – drone. It had a particularly obnoxious engine sound that floated up to him as it passed by, a whining mechanical hum that he had been happy to forget. Even flying far above and off to the side, he couldn’t escape the sound.

However, that was exactly what he and Jenkins had had planned. The mechanical noise, so very out of place above the pastoral landscape that was Mallory, brought nearly everyone out to see what was causing it. Jenkins would be using the camera mounted in the plane’s belly to get a count on what he could see, but Gabriel could look further, into the forest to the north, at the houses that lined the streets, at the fields and roads that ran nearby. Flying high enough that it was difficult to distinguish his form, he could still make out many of the details that might prove to be important. Overt spy plane, covert spy angel.

He had just caught an updraft and was lofting over the woodland that surrounded much of the little town, attempting to make his movements as random – and birdlike – as possible, when he felt an odd sensation, like someone had tickled the back of his neck. He twisted his head and searched around, trying to determine what could have caused it. The whine from the drone was getting quieter, its trajectory moving it away for the moment, and he strained his ears for something else.

There it was, just on the edge of his hearing, a faint, weak…fluttering of wings….

His hand toggled on the radio and Jenkins voice was immediately in his ear. “What have you got?”

“I’m going to go a bit off-topic,” Gabriel announced, his voiced sounding distracted. “Do a little investigating.”

“Something we should be concerned about?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll let you know.” He turned the radio off and pulled the earpiece out, tempted to throw it far into the distance. He did so hate technology. For a few seconds, he hovered in mid-air, turning left and right, attempting to source the sound. There, off to the west, deeper into the forest, it seemed a bit louder. He flew slowly, coasting on updrafts, trying to stay as silent as possible to pinpoint where it came from. 

The further away he got from Mallory, the thicker the woods became. Nature had taken little time to reclaim what had once been hers. Gabriel needed to weed out the distractions of other noises – deer tromping through tall grass, flocks of birds taking flight, water rambling over fallen trees and rocks – and concentrate on what was an increasingly elusive sound. Still, he knew that faint beat, knew it as only an angel could.

Eventually, he thought he had it narrowed down to a particularly dense copse of trees. He couldn’t see through them. _Of course, that would have been too easy._ Picking a path through the canopy, he worked his way down, wending through the tightly packed trunks. Narrow spaces meant a rapid descent, and that was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to go in slowly, carefully. Cautiously.

There was simply no good reason for a higher angel to be down there.

Finally he made his stealthy way to the ground. The flutter had stopped but he still had a good idea of where it had come from. He was downwind, near a sparkling brook with a toppled-down wooden bridge; both any sound of his arrival and his scent should be masked.

He scanned his surroundings. This had probably once been a park, a human place where Nature had been fenced in, arranged, groomed and organized. Now it was a riotous tumble of trees and plants, Spanish moss hanging like great curtains, carpets of deep green vines as far as the eye could see, sunlight dappling through from far above, the water that tumbled over the broken bridge as clear as glass.

Beautiful.

Up ahead, he could see another structure, what had been some kind of pavilion or pergola. Most of the wood was moss-covered now, slowly rotting away, but the roof still held and it sat raised above the rest of the forest floor, a semi-refuge from the encroaching greenery. 

Gabriel moved toward it slowly, keeping his movements as quiet as possible. That was the direction the sound had come from. He could almost make out a pathway in the vines, a trail of not-as-dense foliage that led towards it. His eyes constantly darting left and right, he was hyper-alert, all of his senses straining for input.

Coming closer, he could see a form laying across one of the benches on the side of the pavilion, but the stippled sunlight and shade of the building made it hard to distinguish its nature. Gabriel waited, the shape did not move, and he crept nearer. With agonizing slowness, he silently pulled his sword from its scabbard.

The wood groaned underneath his boot as he entered the little building. He held, still the figure on the other side did not respond. His approach no longer a secret, he walked across the floor.

And froze.

The form that lay across the old bench was swaddled in robes, dirty and torn. What shocked Gabriel the most, however, were the two wings that drooped lifelessly to the floor. Once majestic black wonders of Father’s creation, now they were bent and broken. Huge swaths of feathers were missing or mangled, others charred, melted and deformed.

Gabriel’s breath quickened, his heart racing, yet he stood fast. A sense of terrible foreboding descended upon him. He tried to sheath his sword but his hand shook so much so that it took two tries.

_Steady on, old boy._

Hesitantly, he crouched down beside the figure. He winced. There was blood on the cloak, mixed in with mud and dirt, bits of moss and shreds of bark and leaves. Whomever it was had come down hard through the canopy of trees, unable to stop their fall, crashing into the forest floor and then crawling over to the only shelter they could find. How long ago had that been?

Again, he hesitated. Finally, he forced his hand to the hood that covered the figure’s face. He pushed away the dark folds of cloth, he could finally see the face that hid beneath…

Gabriel fell backwards onto his elbows, gaping out mouthfuls of air. His stomach knotted inside and his chest constricted painfully. Nausea flooded over him, his mind was both blank and completely overwhelmed.

_Raphael._

He had no idea how long it took to get some kind of control over the tsunami of emotions that churned through him. Horror fought with fury fought with confusion, all beneath a great swell of grief that re-emerged just as sharp and strong as the last day he had seen his sister.

His sister, Raphael. 

_His wife’s executioner._

He sat there, shaking, afraid to look further, afraid she was dead, afraid she wasn’t. He watched dumbly but there was no movement beneath the heavy, wool robe.

He stared at her wings, her once glorious wings. He could only imagine the pain. Part of him, her brother, was sick with the thought; another part…

Another part, the part that screamed silently inside him, knew she deserved every bit of it.

Eventually he found the strength to crawl back over to where she lay. His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he couldn’t hear if her heart was working at all. He pushed back the hood again, exposing her head, once so lovely.

Her right eye was swollen shut, purple and green blooms of welts covering much of that side of her face. Her upper lip was split almost to the nose, the blood crusting over her teeth, turning them black in her mouth. Her nose itself was swollen and misshapen, bent to one side, and bruising darkened the area underneath her other eye.

The left side of her perfectly formed head was now swollen and red, not from bruises but from ugly red blisters, burns that had taken off her closely cropped hair and much of the skin beneath it. 

_Her wings,_ Gabriel thought to himself, _her wings had caught fire and scorched her_.

His shaking fingers probed tenderly at her neck, feeling for a heartbeat, a breath, any sign of life. The skin he felt was warm, too warm, feverishly so.

She was alive.

He gently pushed her cloak further back, just enough to check the rest of her body. Trembling hands carefully ran over her arms, chest, legs. He felt awkward – she was the healer, not he – nonetheless he could tell that her left shoulder was dislocated and the arm bent awkwardly just below the elbow. At least a few ribs were broken, and he could see now that her breath was short and shallow, probably agonizing. One ankle was swollen up inside her tall boot – it would be hell to try to pull it off. Nothing immediately life-threatening that he could see – yet – but if she didn’t get aid, if someone didn’t deal with the fever that was starting to take hold, if there were internal injuries…even an archangel would find it difficult to recover from this kind of trauma.

Gabriel sat back on his heels, his face contorted. Why did it have to be him, why did he have to find her? Why couldn’t Michael have come on the mission, heard the pathetic wing call, found their sister in this terrible state? Michael would have had no qualms about helping Raphael, healing her, saving her, no matter what she had done. He was that way, intensely loyal to those he loved. 

But Gabriel…only a few weeks before, he and Alex had searched through the old farmhouse to find Raphael, to find her and kill her. To take retribution for the life she had taken, retribution for Charlotte’s murder.

She was at his mercy now, completely defenseless. No one would know if he took his sword and put it through her heart. No one would know if he evened the score right here and now. His hand went to his side…

Raphael’s left eye fluttered, a faint wisp of conscious action. Gabriel could hear her breathing change, she coughed, then curled forward in agony, her battered face twisted in pain. 

Gabriel couldn’t take it any longer, he moved toward her, slipping his arm underneath her head, lifting it gently, straightening her body. She coughed again, this time less painfully. Her one good eye tried to open to look up at her brother.

“Gabriel. It is you. I wasn’t sure, I couldn’t believe…” Her voice cracked and tears instantly slipped from the edges of her long, dark lashes. “I’m sorry, brother, I’m so very sorry.”

His heart still torn in two directions, still trying to resolve the conflict he felt, he shushed her mechanically, gently stroking the side of her head not covered in burns. 

“I was wrong,” she continued, breaking into sobs, “so wrong. None of it was true, it was all lies.”

Gabriel knew she was getting too agitated, it wouldn’t be good for her in this state. “We can discuss that later. I need to get you out of here.” He worked her good arm up and around his shoulder. “Hold on if you can.”

He stood, lifting her into his arms, her wings trailing desolately behind her. He realized with even more alarm that she weighed almost nothing; she might be tiny, but she was lighter than ever. Glancing at her (something he was trying not to do as much as possible), he saw that beneath the bruises and the burns, she was almost skeletally thin. How long had she been laying there without food or water?

His stomach clenched again seeing the devastation on her once-beautiful face. “Who did this to you, sister?”

Her head fell heavily against his shoulder and he thought she was unconscious again. He shifted her negligible weight in his arms to get a better hold and moved toward a clearer area to take flight. She moaned softly, then turned to look up at him.

“Lucifer.”


	6. Chapter 6

_Operation Ragnarök – Day 12_

_Redstone Arsenal_

Gabriel crashed through the doors the infirmary, his arms filled with a tangled heap of torn and bloody cloth and charred feathers. “Get my brother!” he shouted to the first orderly that he saw, then shoved his way past another as he barreled down the hall. “The rest of you, get out! All of you!”

Few had seen the archangel in such a mood before and most of the medical staff scattered before him like rats. One man, older and less easily ruffled, stood his ground. “Let me help you,” he offered. He motioned toward a triage room, turning on the bright overhead light inside. “Right here, let’s see what we can do.”

“You are incapable of doing anything for her,” Gabriel spat out. Nevertheless, he gently laid his sister down on the stainless-steel table. “Where is Michael?”

Ignoring the shouting, the doctor pulled on rubber gloves and reached into a drawer for a pair of surgical shears. He carefully pulled the cloak away, revealing the tiny, broken angel. “Hodges!” he called out with a sense of calm command. “Come in here and help me.”

Gabriel’s hand thrust out and grabbed the doctor’s arm. “Leave her alone. She is not your kind.”

Again, the doctor looked at him with serene composure. “That may be, but we have to determine the extent of her injuries before anyone can help her. Let me do that for you. And I can do something for her pain, it must be intense.”

Gabriel released his grip, his teeth bared. The doctor immediately bent to work peeling away blood-soaked cloth, brushing away dirt and ash. “Get me some pillows, some blankets,” he said to the nervous Hodges standing nearby. “I want to try to support her body between her wings so we can get her on her back.”

As Hodges left, Michael burst through the doors. “What is it? They said you brought back an angel.” His eyes fell on the pathetic form curled on the table. “Raphael!”

“She’s hurt, brother. Hurt badly.” 

Hodges returned with an armful of pillows and stacked them near the table. They watched as the doctor gently lifted her misshapen form and pulled the cloak out from underneath. Without its bulk, Raphael looked even smaller. 

“Doctor,” Michael interrupted. 

“Reynolds, Dr. Reynolds.”

“Dr. Reynolds,” the archangel allowed. “Have you worked on angels before?”

The doctor glanced up, then dropped his eyes. “Not…alive.”

Michael breathed deeply; this was not the time to discuss such matters. “I appreciate your assistance.” He turned toward the cowering Hodges. “I will some kind of a vessel, a bowl or something, and fire. Please get me these things immediately.”

He turned back toward his brother. “Where did you find her?”

“In the forest outside of Mallory. I don’t know how long she’d been there.”

Michael watched as Reynolds eased back more of the charred cloth. “What happened?”

Gabriel shook his head. “She said it was Lucifer.”

“Lucifer?” The look of horror on Michael’s face was a mirror for his twin’s.

Gabriel leaned silently against a nearby wall. Now that his brother was there, the adrenaline reaction was starting to fade. 

Michael could see how deeply her injuries affected him, but there was much more behind his wide, frightened eyes. “Gabriel?”

The other archangel shook his head again. “I’ve done what I could, Michael. I can’t…I can’t…”

Michael understood. It wasn’t the blood or the pain that Gabriel was afraid of, it was the competing emotions that played across his features. He’d saved his sister, the sister he had vowed to kill. His heart must be a tumult of warring sentiments.

“I’ll take care of her.” Michael put a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder, their fight of only a day ago now little more than a memory. “Go, I’ll find you later.”

Gabriel nodded silently, never taking his eyes off the tiny figure on the table. Their sister was almost stripped now and the wounds looked even worse. The doctor had given her some pain medication and he could see her face slowly relax as it took effect. Nonetheless, Michael would have his work cut out for him, and it would cost him a high price in quills.

Gabriel, however, needed to get away. He needed to be free of the smell of scorched feathers, of the metallic scent of blood, of the palpable agony that hung in the room like a miasma. He pushed his way past Hodges as he went through the door, nearly knocking the intern over, then stumbled into the hallway. His chest was so tight it hurt to breath. He needed to be alone, to think, to come to some kind of resolution with what had happened, what he had done, and what he was going to do. 

For the hundredth time since Charlotte’s death, he desperately missed his flask.

_Vega_

Wildcat Commander Timothy Holt stood next to the conference table, an expanse of windows behind him, high above the city of Vega. The wide table was made of dark, lustrous wood, the chairs around it upholstered in a buttery-soft leather, and the long walls covered with various works of art in golden frames. He’d never seen anything like this room before he’d arrived in this city. He’d been told that the building had previously belonged to one of the bigwigs (he reminded himself that they had called them “V-6’s” here) but it had been commandeered by the Vega Council during the various reassignments that had been going on for the last few months. Eventually the space would be turned into housing, but for now it had become the Wildcats overly-impressive command center for the duration of their stay.

He watched as the last of the Council members, talking animatedly between themselves, left through the wide, gold-trimmed doors, and he breathed a little sigh of relief. This had been the first time that the entire legislature had been involved in a briefing. All in all, the meeting had gone well, but he was mentally exhausted. He was more comfortable in an MRAP or a foxhole than a boardroom, no matter how much gilt and polished wood was involved. He was a soldier, not a politician. 

Tim Holt had been the last of Charlotte Lannon’s promotions to the rank of commander, and he carried the weight of it on his impressive shoulders. His athletic frame was nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, and the combination of that with his short blond hair, sparkling blue eyes and neatly trimmed goatee made him a desirable catch for many of the singles in New Haven. From the come-hither look of the commerce minister’s assistant as she sashayed out the door, it would seem that he could add Vega to that list as well.

The problem (at least for all those other people) was that Commander Holt simply wasn’t interested. He had work to do. 

Commander Lannon had been his idol, a tough, self-sufficient (and single) soldier who had somehow found the way to keep her humanity under the most inhumane of circumstances. He tried daily to emulate her both in his professional and personal lives. War tended to bring out the worst in many people, and although he could understand the anger and the rage that so many felt against the eight-balls, he tried his best to curb his, to have at least a modicum of compassion for the ravening beasts, because that exactly as he saw them – beasts. Poor, stupid, rabid beasts.

His grandmother. His parents. Smack-dab in the middle of Christmas dinner they’d all been possessed, right there in front of him, a five-year-old boy who had no clue what was going on, who ran out of the house and into the forest and hid for three days, living off of the candy bar he’d had in his pocket and a few wild berries, until a group of survivors had stumbled on him. He’d been lucky to be living near a Marine base, lucky that there were people who understood how to fight, how to survive, and how to find and then care for a small, shocked little boy.

He’d never forgotten what had happened to his family, knowing that very likely somewhere out there they might still be alive, still possessed.

Staring out the window, he thought about how he had come to this strange place – Vega. While he might be a commander now, he had risen through the Wildcats ranks gradually. Considering that he’d started service at the age of 12, already big for his age, his rise through the ranks had been slow and deliberate. That hadn’t bothered him – there were few perks to a higher rank in the Wildcat communal society, but much more responsibility. Colonel Andrews had developed the promotion requirements early – Experience, Understanding, Knowledge and Will. They made for a crappy acronym but created a top-notch core of officers, men and women who had the knowledge to lead and the understanding of the right way to do it. He knew that when his time was right, the promotion would come.

When Commander Lannon had requested that he meet with her for dinner that summer night a year ago, he knew that it wasn’t for some strange assignation. The Wildcat leader had found a delicate balance between nurturing and control of her people; a meal at her house was an enviable treat. He’d left with a full stomach, a new rank, and a long list of things that she wanted him to accomplish.

If Captain Holt’s social life had been lacking before, now it was pretty much non-existent. He threw himself into his new role, eager to make Commander Lannon proud of her choice. When she’d died – well, he really didn’t want to explore those feelings any more than he had to. She truly had been a kind of “mother” to all of them.

Upon Commander Jenkins’ return to New Haven, the de facto Commander-in-Chief had divided up the considerable forces that formed the Wildcats and asked Holt to take the 3rd Battalion (Blackhorse) down to Vega. The 3rd Battalion had originally been created from the remnants of the old 11th Armored Calvary Regiment (ACR), the original Blackhorse. Members of the 11th ACR had met up with Colonel Andrews soon after the angels had arrived and brought with them their particular areas of expertise. They were not infiltrators, they were not S&R, they were disciplined but ruthless fighters, capable of both defense and offense. The Blackhorse would do well to fill in the gaps in Vega’s depleted ranks.

Now as he surveyed the maps that filled the large table before him and recalled the people who had just left, Holt once again appreciated Commander Lannon’s prowess, her ability to balance war and peace. Vega was much different from New Haven, with a civilian population that outnumbered their armed forces. With all that this city had been through lately (especially the civil war) he was impressed at how they had come together to rebuild. Given that, he knew that he would have to negotiate a delicate line between the city’s need for defense and its need to continue to restore its infrastructure. The Blackhorse battalion would be on a short lead.

His liaison with Vega was a freshly-minted lieutenant colonel named Mack who had sat on the other end of the table and remained when the others left. At first impression, LTC Mack seemed ill-suited for the job – he had a chip on his shoulder the size of a small mountain and an undisguised contempt for his higher-ups. There were also rumors that he might have gotten his promotion because of his friendship with the so-call Chosen One. 

Mack also had a wicked sense of humor, an open, honest personality and the ability to finagle just about anything that was needed, from motors to ammunition to a rather good bottle of scotch. It took a few days, but Mack’s infectious smile, his willingness to try to do the impossible and, frankly, that bottle of scotch, had finally won Holt over. 

Holt found the lieutenant colonel somewhat undisciplined; it seemed that he had his fingers in twenty different things all at the same time, but somehow, he kept it all straight. Normally this kind of scatter-shot work ethic would have no place in the Wildcat commander’s world, but as the days wore on, he found that Mack was turning out to be exactly what he needed – the bridge between the defense forces and the populace, able to negotiate both at ease. He knew when to talk and when to keep his mouth closed. Usually.

One of the first lines of business that had been discussed had been getting the defensive cannons along Vega’s walls up and working again. Not one for technology, Holt had previously requested that the LTC work on the problem – there was something holding up the process, the guns should have been working months ago, and Holt didn’t have the time to be digging around to find out why.

During the meeting, Mack had given a brief and cogent summation of the situation. The guns themselves were fine, but the firing mechanisms, the computer array that made them work, had been completely destroyed when the eight-balls had overrun the city. Certain components were missing, components no longer available in this post-industrial age. The Council had demanded that a solution be found, little caring what, or how difficult, that solution might be.

Holt had to agree. The wall cannons were integral to the defensive systems of the city. Some way, somehow, they need to be made operational again, and quickly.

As Holt slid back into the tall leather chair, he let another sigh escape his lips, this one a bit more expansive. It wasn’t very professional, but he was fairly sure that Mack felt the same way.

Mack set a piece of paper on the table and used one finger to slide it just to the edge of Holt’s vision.

“What have you got?” Holt asked, finishing a note and pushing a small pile of information into a folder. He hadn’t bothered to look up yet.

“I found the components necessary for the wall gun firing system.”

The commander glanced up, surprised. “Why didn’t you say something during the meeting?”

Mack tilted his head to the side. “I figure it’s better to tell the Council about something that’s a done deal rather than get them worked up about possibilities.”

“I’m impressed.” Holt was, not only in the results but in the LTC’s savvy. He leaned back into the plush chair. “Your people have been working on that for months and you get it done in two days?”

“Not ‘my’ people, sir,” he said with a hint of pride. “Once I got on it, it was a simple matter of networking. I talked to Captain Orton.”

“Our comm officer?”

“Yes, sir. She determined that you use a similar type relay on the Wildcat mobile guidance systems. And then there was the microprocessor that you use with your drones. Orton said that you have stock of both of them. We just need to get them here from New Haven.”

Holt considered this. He didn’t have any problem with sharing the parts – the Wildcat S&R teams had lists and lists of desirable items, and he was sure these components were on them. It wouldn’t take too long to replace the relay and the microprocessor, especially if the information he was hearing about Redstone was true – the old rocket base was a treasure trove of electronics and mechanical parts.

No, what he was concerned about was how Mack had connected with Orton. The comm officer was young, pretty, and not normally involved directly with the Vega personnel. 

“How did you happen to meet Orton?” the commander asked casually. If there was excessive fraternization going on, he wanted to know.

“Oh, she sat in on one of our poker ga –” Suddenly the Vega officer shut his mouth; he hadn’t meant to let the commander in on that particular detail. “Uh, we met at a team-building function.”

Holt stifled a smile. The team-building activities had been a suggestion from Commander Jenkins himself, a way to make a cohesive force from the two very different groups of soldiers. However, Holt doubted that poker had been one of the planned exercises. 

He felt oddly relieved that this was how Mack and Orton had met up. Orton was known as a helluva card player – if there was a game, she would find it. She would also probably take everyone at the table to the bank. Although he couldn’t formally condone gambling, he was certain that Orton’s interest in Mack was his access to the table and not something else.

The question then remained – what were Mack’s interests in Orton? And why, of all things, did this seem to matter?

“Well done,” Holt replied nonchalantly, once again looking down at his notes, checking off one of the items. “Get a requisition out to New Haven command immediately. Get some spares, too – I don’t want to see this happening again under my watch. See if you can meet up with a squad halfway between here and there – I want those components installed ASAP. Talk to your colonel, tell him the plan. I’ll verify the request.”

“Right away, sir.” The LTC spun on his heel, heading for the door. As usual, he had neglected any kind of salute.

“And soldier,” the commander called out. “About that poker game.”

Mack grimaced and turned back around. The lack of rank in the address was alarming. “Yes, sir?”

“Watch out for Orton,” Holt answered. “She’ll take you for everything you’ve got.”

A wide grin split the lieutenant colonel’s face. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir, thank you.”

_Redstone Arsenal_

Gabriel sat in the passage outside of the infirmary in a folding chair that he had liberated from another room. They were all over the base, these collapsible metal carcasses. In the archangel’s mind it was more proof that humans spent too much time in discussions and not enough in deed.

The hallway he had taken refuge in was thankfully devoid of people – the regular personnel assigned to this area had collectively decided that it was a good time to be elsewhere, and though he may have well been the one who had scared them off, he was grateful for the solitude. The space was blessedly quiet; he wasn’t far from the surgery, but far enough away that the sound of Michael’s calm voice discussing Raphael’s condition with the doctor was muted by wall and doors.

Elbows on his knees, Gabriel held his head in his hands as if he were trying to hold his brain together. There were simply too many thoughts going through it right now. His fingers massaged the short hair on his scalp – he missed his longer hair, it had been therapeutic to be able to tug on it occasionally, like trying to jumpstart his thoughts. He’d cut it soon after Charlotte’s death. She’d always been pushing the curtain of his bangs out of his eyes, her face lit with a patient, loving smile. He’d realized that he had worn his hair that way when he went to Denver all those years ago and kept it the same in some strange, unrealized homage to her memory. 

Then, miraculously, they’d found each other once again in Vega. They’d found happiness.

No longer. She was gone, and no one else would have that tender intimacy with him.

_Charlotte…_

He’d just brought his wife’s murderer back to the base. 

He’d brought his sister back so that her family could take care of her.

She’d said it was Lucifer….

_Raphael…_

Tears stung the corners of his eyes. He ground the heels of his palms into them, trying to stem the flood, trying to halt the tide of his confusion, yet nothing could stop the pain.

Jenkins could see his quarry at the other end of the hall, sitting in a chair, his head down, looking for all the world as if he were merely waiting for a bus. “Gabriel!” he called out, quickening his pace. “What the hell are you doing? First you go radio silent and the next thing I know I’ve got reports of you in the infirmary with a casualty. This isn’t how we do things around here!”

As soon as Gabriel raised his head, Jenkins stopped. He’d seen that look on the archangel’s face before, the sense of bewilderment, of being completely overwhelmed by circumstances beyond one’s control. The commander put his hand on the angel’s back. “What is it, man?”

Gabriel shook his head, not sure what to say. “Raphael.” He jerked his head toward the surgery. “She’s in there with Michael.”

Jenkins wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “Your sister?”

“Yes. I found her outside of Mallory, in the forest.”

The commander stood back a few feet, his spine straightening. “Your sister. The one who killed Charlotte. You…you brought her…here?”

Gabriel looked up with him with wide eyes. He understood Jenkins’ feelings, the two of them shared a common grief that few others could imagine. Even he was somewhat horrified by what he had done – to aid Charlotte’s murderer? In a sane world, justice would be served and everything would be put right, but the world had not been sane for a very long time.

“She was beaten,” the archangel tried to explain. “She said it was Lucifer.”

“Lucifer.” Jenkins said it more as a statement than a question. He ran the edge of his finger over his mustache, smoothing it into place. It was a reflex action he had taken to doing when he was thinking. “Do you believe her?”

“At the farmhouse…” Gabriel started, but his thoughts seem disjointed, “Raphael fought Michael. She very nearly killed him. Then she survived Alex’s explosion and escaped before anyone could find her. She’s formidable, more than ever before, but when I found her in the forest, she was…” He could not finish, the memory of her injuries too intense. “Only a very powerful angel could have bested her like that.”

“Why? I don’t understand. Is this another one of Lucifer’s games?”

“I don’t know. Once I’d found her, what little time she was conscious, she said to me that ‘she was wrong.’ Perhaps she has turned against Lucifer and this is what he did to punish her. She’s hurt, badly hurt.” Gabriel dropped his head back into his hands. “She’s my sister, but right now I don’t know if I want her to live or to die.”

Jenkins crossed his arms and stood staring at the door to the infirmary as if he could see though the walls. He had his own feelings about the tiny archangel, but he had to respect Gabriel and Michael, he wasn’t about to win this battle without them and Alex Lannon. 

And if what Gabriel said was true, if Raphael had in reality turned away from Lucifer, then this third archangel could turn out to be a valuable ally. If she could be trusted.

If she lived.

He gave a long sigh. “There are only a few people alive that know that Raphael is the one who killed Charlotte: you, me, your brother and Alex. Most other people think it was Julian, and I’m willing to keep it that way, at least for now. Nonetheless, I’m going to post a guard on the infirmary; we don’t have any idea what the ramifications of you bringing her here are going to be.

“Speaking of,” the commander continued, his voice stern. “You need to follow protocol, Gabriel, we have to have some kind of discipline. I can’t have you haring off on your own whenever you feel like it. That puts me and my people in danger.” He dropped his hand to the archangel’s shoulder again. “ _Our_ people. We’re working together here.”

Gabriel sat back in the chair, one brow lifted. This human had quite the moxie to dress down an archangel. Even in his emotional exhaustion, he had to bite back a smirk.

The human continued to impress him.

“Yes, sir.” The sarcasm in the Gabriel’s tired voice and sad smile was only slightly evident.

Jenkins left Gabriel with one last, long look and turned to head back to his office. Another situation to deal with, another thorn under his saddle. They never seemed to end. He rubbed at his forehead as he walked, trying to ward off the nascent headache he could feel behind his eyes. He’d had only about an hour of rest the night before, readying for the drone mission, and his body was achy and tired. He already knew, however, that sleep was not going to come easy tonight; for all his exercising of command with Gabriel, his personal emotions were just as tumultuous as the archangel’s. 

When Gabriel had told him what he had done, a certain part of him had wanted to rush into the surgery and put his pistol to the side of Raphael’s pretty little head, pull the trigger and watch her brains splatter the wall like a bloody Rorschach test. He knew that was a stupid thought – guns were minimally effective on archangels – but the sentiment remained. He wanted justice, justice for the most heinous crime he had ever witnessed, the death of a woman who had defied the “extermination” in the Extermination War, who had not only helped to save the Wildcats, but given them and their families the opportunity to live good and happy lives. His heart craved some kind of retribution. He thought he would get it when they finally met Lucifer – it was the whole reason he had insisted that he be the one to lead this part of the mission – but now Raphael was here, on the base, just a few hundred feet away.

Walking up to his office door, he saw Mouse seated at her desk, another of the interminable stacks of files before her. She was a treasure, not only in the field but here, able to sort through reams of information and find the little nuggets of information gold. Currently she was going through old supply lists for the base to see if they leant any light on where the S&R teams should work next.

“Commander,” Jenkins started, then seeing no one else nearby, “Mouse.”

“Yes, sir.” The smile she offered him fell away when she noticed the strain on his features. 

“I need you to put a rotating 24-hour guard on the infirmary. We have an unexpected guest there and I don’t want anyone but authorized personnel getting in. No exceptions. You can ask Gabriel or Michael for a list of pertinent names; I’m sure they can help you with that.”

“Yes, sir, immediately.”

“And keep this quiet if you can, I don’t want even more gossip than we already have around here.”

“No problem, sir. I’ll emphasize discretion and need-to-know.”

“Thank you, I know you’ll take care of it.”

“Sir?” She stood up, still nearly a foot shorter than he was, but wanting to close the distance between them at least a little. “Sir, you look…stressed.”

He laughed. “We’re about to go to battle against the Devil himself, I think that is worthy of a little stress.”

“Yes, but…” She fumbled with the words, then put down the file she still held and walked around the desk toward him. “It’s something else, isn’t it?”

He gazed down at her, this brave little scrap of a soldier. Memories of his times with Charlotte Lannon came rushing back to him, memories of when she had bent the rules, let him into her confidence, perhaps even unloaded a bit of the burden she carried. 

He needed a confidant, now more than ever, and truth be told, there was no one he would trust with a secret more than Mouse.

“Take care of the guard at the infirmary.” Then he continued, his voice lower. “Then, if you could rustle up some food for the both of us, we could eat in my office and…talk.”

Mouse’s soft brown eyes lit with understanding. There would be talk, and nothing more, but she could tell that Jenkins needed to think some things through, and he was choosing her to do it with. It was a high honor. “Let me get the MP’s organized and then I’ll see what I can do with the cooks.”

He put his hand on her thin shoulder, not giving support, as he had done with Gabriel, but almost taking it instead. “Thank you.”

The door at the end of the hallway smacked loudly against the wall. Gabriel had been expecting the guards that Jenkins had mentioned, but when he looked up, it was Alex storming toward him. He was wearing a flak vest and the regulation Wildcat BDU pants. A short, wicked-looking shotgun peeked out from over one shoulder.

“Alex, what are you doing here?”

“Is it true?” the young man shouted before he was close. “They said you brought somebody back. A higher angel.”

Gabriel nodded.

“Is it Noma?”

The archangel shook his head and a terrible sense of foreboding came upon Alex. “No, tell me it isn’t,” he begged. “Tell me it’s not Raphael.”

Gabriel rose and stood in the center of the hall, blocking his son’s path. This is what he had been afraid of, what he had hoped to avoid. His voice was purposefully calm. “Michael’s in with her.”

Alex stopped only a few inches away from him, glaring up into his father’s face. “Why the hell would you do that? You know…you know what she did to my mother, you saw it.”

Gabriel took a long, slow breath. He had seen, and more. The image of Charlotte lying in his arms, the dagger erupting from her chest, her breath slowly failing...he would never be able to rid himself of the vision. But the sight of Raphael covered in blood, her beautiful face bruised and torn… “I found her in the forest, she was hurt, tortured. I couldn’t leave her there to die…she’s my sister.”

“And I’m your son! Doesn’t that mean anything?” Alex turned away, grabbing at his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The action was surprisingly reminiscent. “You and I were there, at the farmhouse. We said we were going to kill Raphael. Would you actually have killed her or was that all talk?”

“Yes!” Gabriel retorted. “Yes, I would have eagerly put my sword through her! Your mother had died in my arms, her blood was still wet on my hands! I knew nothing but vengeance for her and protecting you.”

“What’s different now? She killed your wife!”

The words hit Gabriel like a physical blow, hammering home the memory, churning up all the confusion that swirled within. It took all of his willpower to stay calm; losing his patience would do nothing to help Alex. “Raphael is my family.”

“I thought I was, too,” Alex spit out through clenched teeth. He tried to push past, shoving his shoulder against the archangel. “I’m going in there and I’m finishing what I started at the farmhouse.” He pulled the empyrean steel dagger from his belt.

“Alex, no!” Gabriel grabbed at his son’s arm, spinning him around. “I can’t let you do that.”

“She’s a murderer, she deserves to die!”

“Then so do I, a million times over.”

Alex angrily shook off the archangel’s grip. “What she did was different. She put a knife in my mom’s back.”

“I’ve put my sword through thousands of humans, as has Michael. Are we all to die?”

“It’s not the same. She killed my mom!” Tears threatened to fall down his cheeks and he roughly brushed them away. 

Gabriel stepped forward, his voice quiet and caring. “Do you think I don’t feel that same pain, do you think I don’t have the same desire? Raphael took from me the only thing more precious than you. But she didn’t understand what she was doing, she’d lost her mind under Lucifer’s influence. I think she’s…she’s better now. I have to give her the same chance that Michael gave me, that Charlotte did – the chance to atone.”

“‘She’s _better_ now? _’”_ Alex repeated, horrified. “Are you shitting me?” 

The Chosen One wrapped his arms around his chest. He hurt inside, physically hurt. Part of him desperately wanted to rush past Gabriel and blast open the doors and put his mother’s dagger right through Raphael’s heart. Another part was almost paralyzed with renewed grief – both Gabriel and Michael were standing up for their sister, helping her, after all she had done. He felt betrayed by the angelic brothers, alone in his sorrow.

The doors at the end of the hallway opened and two MP’s entered in full kit. One of them was talking on the radio.

Alex shook his head. “They’re here to guard her, aren’t they?”

Gabriel nodded.

“You son of a bitch.” Alex shook his head, disgusted. “All this talk about family.” He looked down at his hand, at the silver ring that circled the little finger of his left hand. With a choking snarl, he twisted it, yanking it off violently and throwing it at the archangel. It missed and clinked musically against the wall, the floor. “I don’t want to be part of your goddamned family.”

He shoved his way between the guards as he stomped back down the hallway. 

Gabriel leaned down and picked up the ring, a platinum band with a triskel design that he had made for Charlotte but had never had the chance to give to her. Alex had decided to wear it soon after he had learned of his parents’ marriage, although Gabriel wasn’t sure why. Now he understood. Like the band would have been to Charlotte, it was a physical reminder of their bond, their family, a bond that Alex no longer wanted.

 _“And I’m your son!”_ Alex had shouted it in angry defiance. Still, it was the first time that Gabriel could remember the boy ever admitting their relationship.

Gabriel sat down again while the guards took up their posts near the door. His head once more bent forward dejectedly. His right hand searched for the hank of hair that was no longer there to mindlessly tug at, while his other hand squeezed the little circle of silvery metal.

It was late evening by the time Michael came out of the infirmary, his shoulders slumped, his face drawn. He dismissed the guards with a silent gesture. 

“She’ll live,” he announced woodenly when they had gone. He leaned his back against the wall across from Gabriel’s chair and slowly slid to the floor until his knees were drawn up to his chest. It was a very un-Michael thing to do.

Gabriel edged forward in concern. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you.”

Michael waved off the sentiment. “I understand. Even I hesitated – I can’t forget that she tried to cut me in two.” His hand went reflexively to his abdomen where Raphael’s shotel had sliced through skin and muscle. “When I saw her lying there, covered in blood, her wings broken and burnt…she’s our sister, the only one we have left.”

“I know. Which is why I couldn’t leave her in that forest.”

“It would have meant her death if you had.” Michael sighed heavily. “I don’t know how she survived this long.”

“She told you more?”

He nodded. “Once the pain medications started to work, she could speak. Most of the time she slept, but she told me what happened.”

“She said it was Lucifer.”

“She thinks so, I tend to agree. Lucifer still has no corporeal shape, yet his power grows with each sacrifice and there have been several more.”

“If he has no form, then how…?” Gabriel let the question hang unfinished. 

“Raphael said she was returning from the West, returning to Mallory. It must have been a few days before you and I arrived here. She’d been on a mission for Lucifer but she hasn’t elaborated on that. What she did talk about was the storm, a terrible thunderstorm that grew quickly around her, cutting off her path. Normally she would have landed – we all know the dangers of flying in a storm – but there was something that compelled her, _forced_ her to keep flying. She was thrashed by the winds, thrown into rocks and trees, struck by lightning more than once.” Michael stopped, his face gripped by torment. “Her wings, Gabriel – I wasn’t sure they could be saved. They’re both badly broken. I did what I could, but it will be weeks before she can even try to use them. And then…”

He didn’t have to say anything more. An angel, especially an archangel, had amazing recuperative powers. Their wings, however, were different. They were the source of the healing quills that could not be healed themselves. It was nearly impossible to damage them, but if they were, it was difficult to ever make them right again.

Gabriel’s head bobbed toward his brother. “Your wings can’t be fairing much better. Between healing me and now Raphael, you have to be a little sparse in the primaries.”

Michael gave him the tiny shrug that so often signaled his agreement. “I won’t be making any long flights for a few days.”

“I never said thank you. For doing that, for healing me.”

The darker angel looked over at his twin. He could still see a rouge of bruise on Gabriel’s jaw, a silent reminder of their recent fight. “And I never said I was sorry.”

“I deserved every bit of it, Michael. I pushed you too far; I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“No, you shouldn’t have, but perhaps I needed to be pushed.” His tone was noncommittal and he said nothing more for a few minutes. Finally, he pointed toward his brother’s hand. “What do you have?”

Gabriel hadn’t realized he’d been mindlessly rolling the silver ring between his fingers, lost in his own thoughts. “Charlotte’s ring. Alex…returned it.”

Michael nearly jumped to his feet. “Alex was here?” 

“Yes. Somehow, he found out about Raphael. I can’t say he was pleased.”

“I can’t imagine he would be. What did he say?”

“He wants to put a dagger into our sister’s heart. I don’t blame the boy; the thought’s run through my head more than once.”

“This isn’t good. I wanted to talk to Alex first, before he found out. Now I’m sure he thinks we’ve chosen Raphael over him.”

Gabriel looked up. “Haven’t we?”

“There’s no choice to be made. We must stand with the Chosen One against Lucifer or everything is lost. Helping Raphael did not change this, it was merely the right thing to do.”

“I don’t think my son will see the finesse of your argument, brother. He has always been a rather black-and-white kind of thinker.”

Michael shook his head. Yet another obstacle in their path. Yes, another obstacle, one that caused a rift between the Chosen One and his father, his uncle. Just as Laurel’s arrival had driven a wedge between the two brothers. Yes, just the same…

“I’m not saying that I agree with you about everything,” Michael started solemnly, “but I will grant that Laurel’s arrival here, at this time, was rather…opportune.”

“As was my finding Raphael.” Gabriel leaned forward, his eyes alight. “You said she felt compelled. What did you mean?”

“She said she had no control. Whatever it was compelled her, forced her to fly into the heart of the storm, into the worst of it. She’s frightened, brother, and she’s afraid it will happen again.”

Gabriel slumped back in his chair. “Possession.”

“No one has ever possessed an archangel,” Michael countered angrily.

“No one had possessed a higher angel until I did it, or a dyad for that matter.” There was little pride in his statement. “All you need is a way in.” 

Michael closed his eyes and sighed again. “The connection she had to Lucifer. She could hear his voice, they were already bonded.”

“Exactly.”

“Then unless she can break that connection, he could possess her once more. But why do this, why hurt her so?”

Gabriel stood and started pacing in the narrow hallway. “When I found her there, in the forest, she said ‘None of it is true, it was all lies.’ I don’t know if she came to that epiphany before or after this…” he threw up his hands “…this assault. If she had lost faith in Lucifer, he could be punishing her. Or,” he mused, turning about, “it’s just as you said, another rather opportune arrival.” 

“Her presence here has certainly had an effect.” 

“A rather disastrous one.”

Michael nodded his agreement. “Right now, I doubt Alex will speak to either of us. What better way to destroy an enemy than from within?”

“Jenkins isn’t very happy, either.” Gabriel rubbed his thumb along his lower lip, thinking. “And you and I came to blows over Laurel. A less than cohesive fighting unit. Rather convenient for our big brother.”

“You think Lucifer sent both of them?”

“I do. One way or the other, Laurel and Raphael have both ended up here, now. The question is whether they are merely pawns or willing collaborators.”

“I can’t believe…” Michael turned away, but when he looked back, Gabriel could see the anguish in his face. “Laurel…I don’t want it all to be a lie. I want a future, with her and that child.”

More than anyone, Gabriel knew what his twin craved, what he dared to hope for. He’d had it himself once, for a short time. It was as close to Heaven as he thought he could ever get again.

He clasped Michael’s forearm. “We’ll figure it out, brother. No matter what, we must stay together. I’m not going to lose you again.”

“Nor I.” Michael grasped his arm back. “We’ve been through too much. But we need Alex, we need to reconcile things with him. Without him…”

“I know.” Gabriel held up the small silver circlet. He could see the triskel pattern engraved on it. What had he called the three of them before, a rather dysfunctional little trio? More dysfunctional now than ever. “We need to sort this.” He slipped the ring onto the little finger of his left hand, where Alex had worn it. “I think it’s time we get the band back together.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 13_

_Redstone Arsenal_

Michael walked out of the surgical suite, nodded to the guards once again on duty, and moved down the corridor toward the hospital ward. He pulled his long leather coat on as he walked, not that he needed it for warmth, but he felt disheveled after his night-long vigil at Raphael’s side and the coat gave him some sense of order. He brushed his fingers through his dark hair. It was getting longer than he was used to, longer than he’d worn it in centuries. Another annoyance.

He was tired, physically and mentally. Healing his sister had taken more than an abundance of quills; it had been a long battle against broken bones, charred tissue, pathogens and fever. He was not a healer, his experience was that of a conscripted field medic, not a surgeon. He’d pooled his limited knowledge with that of Dr. Reynolds and they’d treated the most serious injuries first. The collapsed lung, the fractured ribs, the lacerated organs, the shattered ankle, then the worst of the burns. Her tiny body could only take so much of the healing feathers – human medicine would bring down the fever, kill the infections, dull the pain. 

She would live, but he did not know how well she would recover. Her wings – well, those would be a job for another day. 

He felt an involuntary shiver roll through his back and he closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. There was nothing else that he could do for Raphael right now, and he had another task at hand. One nearly as difficult.

He opened the door to find Laurel.

The thought of sitting alone in the hospital ward for yet another long day proved to be an exercise in torture for someone as active as Laurel Phillips. Once she had proven herself sufficiently recovered, she had pleaded with both her doctors and Michael to be allowed to do something, _anything¸_ to keep herself from going crazy during the time that Michael was away on other duties.

Unfortunately, this was not quite as simple as she thought. Her status on the base was still uncertain. Jenkins and Gabriel were united in their suspicions; Gabriel advocated for something along the lines of house arrest. Jenkins was a bit more lenient, if nonetheless nervous about having a stranger roaming about, much less a stranger from the very place they were about to attack.

Michael took their concerns under consideration – Laurel would remain within the same building, but she was given a room of her own and he asked the doctors to find her something to occupy her time.

It was there that Michael found her, surrounded by stacks of mismatched boxes, plastic crates and what looked to be small red suitcases. A folding table ran along one wall, a cot with her bag and belongings ran along another beneath a row of newly-cleaned windows. 

Michael watched as she sat at the table with one of the red cases open before her, pulling the contents out one by one. She frowned as she examined a tube of some kind; she twisted it, read the label, then tossed it into a trash bin at her feet. The next item was picked, examined and deemed viable, then placed in its proper pile on the table. She continued until the case was empty, then stacked it on the floor and reached for another.

So intent was she on her work, she’d failed to notice his arrival even through the open door. He lightly rapped his knuckles on the doorframe and she nearly jumped at the sound.

Her face lit up in delight and embarrassment. “Good morning!” She got up from the chair and walked toward him to kiss him on the cheek. “I missed you last night.”

“I was needed elsewhere.” His gaze ran over the boxes, the cot. “The room is to your liking?”

“Yeah, it’s great, thanks. They’ve got me sorting through the first aid supplies they’ve found in various places, seeing what’s usable.” Her eyes narrowed as she sensed his mood and she continued with less enthusiasm. “At least it’s something to do.” 

She paused, tilting her head to look at him further. Her hand went to the side of his face. “Michael, what is it, what’s wrong? You look exhausted.”

He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand, feeling the warmth of it, the softness of her skin against his cheek, a tiny moment of refuge before the emotional tempest he was about to unleash. 

The moment was over. He took her fingers into his own, pulling them away from his face. “We must talk.”

“Michael? You’re scaring me.”

He had no answer. He nodded toward the cot. “Sit with me.”

She refused to let go of his hand as they sat down and peered up at him with a kind of wary apprehension. “Tell me. What is it?”

“My sister, Raphael. She was brought here yesterday. She’d been attacked.”

“Oh, no! Is she alright?”

“She was…hurt.” Visions of the tiny archangel’s injuries swam before his eyes – the pale white bone, the crimson blood, the ebony black of her burned wings. “Hurt very badly. By my brother.”

“Gabriel? Gabriel did that to his own sister?”

“No, not Gabriel. Gabriel _saved_ her. She was attacked by my eldest brother, Lucifer.”

“Lucifer? But I thought…I thought it was Gabriel’s war.”

It was easy to understand her confusion; she hadn’t been in Vega, she wasn’t part of the Wildcats. She wasn’t privy to the plans that were even now being made around her. 

Unless it was all an act. He had to be sure.

“Raphael was working with Lucifer against me, against the Chosen One,” he explained. “My sister listened to his voice and Lucifer led her on a path against her own family. We believe that when she realized what she had done, she turned against him and he took his vengeance out upon her.”

“Oh, that’s horrible.” She shook her head. “I’m very sorry for her, but I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this? What does this have to do with me?”

“Laurel.” He took his hands away from her, breaking the contact, leaving her more vulnerable. “The voice that you hear, the voice that answers your prayers is not Father. It is Lucifer."

Her eyes flew open in horror and she moved away from him on the cot. “That’s…that’s blasphemy, Michael! Why would you ever say that?”

“It’s true. I’m sorry, but it’s true. I’ve spoken with the Prophet; he’s told me so himself. Lucifer’s flame is the one protecting Mallory, Lucifer keeps the fire lit and the eight-balls at bay. Not my Father.”

Michael watched the woman very carefully, watched her as she slowly stood up and backed away from him in small, uncertain steps. Her hip nudged against the table and she stopped, one hand pressed against the surface for support. 

“No,” she whispered, her breath quavering in her chest. Tears gathered in her wide, wide eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “No. He’s guided me my whole life. He’s saved my people. That can’t be true.”

“Lucifer put your people in a very pretty prison, Laurel. He may have saved them, but the price was human life. My Father would never ask for that.”

Her face twisted up in pain. “No, I can’t believe that. Please, Michael, I can’t believe that,” she cried, wrapping her arms around her middle.

He stood and walked over to her but still kept his distance. He hated doing this to her, he was almost certain…

 _“I am the Archangel Michael,”_ he said, putting as much quiet authority into his voice as he could. “Do you not think I would know my Father’s deeds?”

“Oh, God.” She turned away from him, collapsing onto the table. “Oh, God, no.” Her body was rocked by great heaving sobs as she slowly sank to the floor, little gasps of “ _no, no, no,”_ coming out with every choking breath. 

Michael watched, trying to be clinical, trying to be detached, trying to see the truth beyond the emotion. At the same time his heart screamed at him to go to her, to comfort her, to _help her!_

This had to be enough, the woman was beyond distraught, beyond devastated. She lay collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobbing with emotional pain, curling up tighter and tighter around the baby she carried, as if trying to protect it from the horror she had just heard.

_It was not an act!_

Finally, he could take it no longer. This wasn’t good for her or the child. He crouched beside her and put out a hand. “Laurel, I’m sorry.” 

“No,” she shied away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

He was taken aback. This was unexpected. “You needed to know.”

“No, don’t!” She shook her head vehemently, edging even further away until she was completely under the table, one hand grasping onto the chrome leg for support, the other still wrapped around her stomach. She rocked back and forth, letting out a low, crooning wail.

“Laurel.” Michael was dumbfounded; he’d never dreamed of this kind of reaction. He’d expected her to be hurt, yes, perhaps even angry, but she was completely shattered. He had no idea what to do, how to comfort her. He could only watch and feel more miserable himself.

After a few excruciating minutes, she took a long, shaky breath. Her face was still a mask of agony. “You’re fighting him, aren’t you? Lucifer.”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.” She swallowed. Slowly, her expression changed, still pained but now more resolute. “Then it’s true. He was using me.”

He nodded but he could not meet her eyes. “We believe so.”

A choking cry escaped her throat. “And...and…and this baby?” She could barely get out the words.

“I don’t know. There’s only been one child like this before. Alex. The Chosen One.”

She grimaced in further pain, yet at the same time, she seemed calmer, as if the knowing was better than the wondering. Her sobs settled into gentle shudders. Nonetheless, she kept away from him, leaning back against the leg of the table, staring blindly out the window. 

“That’s what this is all about,” she said eventually, her tone one of exhausted resignation. Her hand waved around, taking in the building, the base. “That’s why everyone is here. You’re going to attack Mallory. That’s why Lucifer sent me here, because he was afraid of you. I’m his honey trap.”

“No.” Michael was both stunned and horrified that she would have put it all together so quickly, to have stated it so bluntly. “That is not true.”

“Face it, Michael, this was a set-up. I’m a pawn in your brother’s game.”

“No, you are not!” They were both surprised by the intensity of his response. “Even if that were Lucifer’s original plan, it did not work. If we all know about it, if we are all aware, then he has failed.” The archangel paused, searching the floor, the walls for answers, for the words to make things right. “It does not matter how I met you. I don’t know why I wandered into Mallory last year, whether it was Lucifer’s doing or simply Fate. All that matters is that I did meet you, I met you and I fell in love with you. That is what is important, that and this child.”

Laurel gaped at him for a long moment, then gave a kind of unintended laugh. She wiped at her face, a tender smile slowly softening her tear-stained features. “You’ve never said that before.”

“What?”

“That you love me.”

Michael felt an odd flush come over his cheeks. He turned away. “I am…not accustomed to expressing my sentiments.”

She laughed again. “I’ve noticed.” She crawled a bit from under the table. “I love you, too.” Her hand rested on top of his. “ _We_ love you.”

The words gave him a feeling he had not expected, a kind of emotional rush that blew away his fatigue like a fresh summer breeze, full of promise. He tentatively pulled her into his arms and she came to him, resting her head against his shoulder. 

They sat on the floor that way for a few minutes, content in the silence, content in each other’s company. “I won’t let it happen,” she said after a time, “I won’t let Lucifer use me – _us,_ ” she held her middle, “against you anymore.”

Michael held her just a bit tighter.

They stayed that way for a while longer. “The people in Mallory,” she said, still tucked in his embrace. 

“Yes.”

“They’re innocents. They don’t deserve to die.”

“No, they don’t.”

“They’re my friends, Michael.” She turned to look up at him. “They’re still my people. Lucifer lied to them as much as he lied to me.”

“I know.

“I want to get him.” She grasped his hand and squeezed it tight. “I want to get that son of a bitch, but I want to try to save as many people in Mallory as I can. Let me help. I can give you information, I can go back there and talk to my people. I can tell them what you told me, just let me help.”

He saw it in her eyes – she wanted revenge. It was the last piece of the puzzle, the final bit of the picture; he knew now for certain that she had nothing to do with his eldest brother and never would. He wrapped his arms around her once more. 

In this battle, at least, Lucifer had lost.

In a clear violation of regs, Sergeant Naomi Lopez had neglected to turn in the paperwork on the perfectly preserved house that she and Alex had found. She had also failed to relinquish the set of keys that had been sitting on the kitchen counter inside. Some tiny voice inside her had told her that the temporary possession of that place, of a “safe house”, would be more important than a bit of bookkeeping, especially during these strange times. It wasn’t a matter of _if_ she would report the house, it was just a matter of _when_ , and right now was not the _when_.

The day before, she’d managed to grab a couple of apples and hard-boiled eggs from the breakfast line and a few extra pickles to go with their requisite jerky rolls. A veritable feast, she and Alex had gone to the house at midday and pulled out the massive dining room table and two of the covered chairs and had themselves a “proper” luncheon, or as proper as one could have without the benefit of plates, knives or forks. They’d laughed and talked and eaten and gone right back to work without any other…well, _distractions_. The antics in the bedroom of two days ago had been a welcome relief but there was work to do and Naomi wanted to get it done. She was impressed with how quickly Alex had adapted to his new role as her S&R partner and they had rapidly become one of the more successful pairs of S&R scouts. There may also have been a friendly wager or two that had been placed among the S&R regulars for houses cleared and product found – Naomi Lopez was nothing if not competitive.

Today, however, was a different story. Alex had shown up ten minutes late and looking as if he had slept through a tornado, if he had slept at all. 

She shoved an empty rucksack, a full canteen and the rest of his equipment at him. “Tough night? You gonna make it?”

Alex grabbed the tactical vest first and slung it on half-heartedly. “Yeah.” He brusquely grabbed the rest of the gear and started walking.

His mood did not improve during the morning. Alex seemed eager to kick down each and every door, storm inside gun drawn, and make a rapid if efficient sweep of the place. Naomi found herself following behind him with a pencil and paper, making notes for any future recovery, if necessary, and little else. They managed to clear the entire side of one street in nearly record time but the usual treasure hunts, the friendly banter, even the moments of somber reflection were all missing.

The day was unseasonably warm and muggy, more like summer than late fall and Alex’s take-no-prisoners pace was exhausting. Naomi had had enough. “Hey, let’s break for lunch, ok? I managed to snag a couple carrots, some more apples. Not as exciting as yesterday, I know, but let’s go back to the house, get out of the sun for a little while.”

Alex stared at her for an uncomfortably long time without saying a word. “Sure,” he finally agreed with little intonation. “Let’s go.”

They walked back to the big colonial without another word. Naomi pulled the keys out of her pocket and unlocked the front door; it took little more than a hard shove now to get it open. Once inside, they dropped weapons, flak vests and even shoes near the entrance and locked it again. This was a safe house in more than one sense of the word.

Naomi padded into the dining room with her backpack, putting it on the table they had moved out to use. “So you want to tell me what the hell is the matter?” she called back.

Alex wandered into the living room, lifting the corner of one of the chair coverings and looking underneath. A dark blue velvet recliner. He flipped the sheet off and sat down, leaning back to get comfortable. His clothes were probably filthy but right now he really didn’t care.

After a few minutes, Naomi came into the room. “Alex?” 

He sat sprawled in the chair, his arms crossed behind his head, his eyes closed. “What?”

“You going to answer me?”

“It doesn’t concern you.”

“It sure as shit does. I’m your partner.”

“Yeah, about that.” He turned toward her slowly. “Who put you up to that, the whole ‘partner’ thing? Was it Michael? Gabriel?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Seems like something Michael would do. Did he tell you to babysit me? Keep me nice and safe and occupied?”

“Nooo.” She drew the word out with disbelief. “Where are you getting this from?”

“Then again,” Alex stood and looked around the richly appointed room, ignoring her reply, “there’s this place. Who told you about this? Sounds more like Gabriel. Did he find it for you, tell you about it?”

“What?”

“Convenient, wasn’t it? Definitely Gabriel’s style, get a _woman_ to keep me _occupied_ , and a place to do it in.”

She stared at him open-mouthed. “What did you say?”

“He’s tight with Jenkins,” he continued, his voice thick with disdain. “What did he offer you? A promotion? Captain? _Commander_?”

It took only three long steps for her to move across the room and one sweep of her arm to slap him across the face. “You self-centered little shit!” she spat at him. “I am nobody’s whore!”

Alex held his cheek, shocked. 

“Not that I owe you _any_ explanation, but the only reason I got stuck with your sorry ass is because my regular partner put his foot through a rotten staircase and sprained his ankle. And nobody ‘told’ me about this place, you jackass.” She threw her arms up in the air. “It was luck of the draw – any team could have ended up with this detail. But no, you have to dream up some plot against you, because you’re ‘ _the Chosen One.’”_ She threw the disdain right back at him. “I’m not a goddamn babysitter, Alex, and you’re not my goddamn job. My job is S&R, and right now so is yours.”

He shook his head angrily. “That’s just it – what I’m doing here, it’s all bullshit. In Vega, I was something. Not just the Chosen One – I had a purpose! I was a soldier, a fighter. Men and women, regular people, fought with me against the eight-balls, they _chose_ to follow me. I found people _homes_ , I gave them _jobs_ , not just blankets and sewing needles. I made a difference. 

“Here, here I’m nothing, I’m nobody – no, that’s not true – I’m ‘ _Commander Lannon’s son_.’ That’s all.” He angrily ripped open the top of his shirt, sending buttons flying. “I’ve got these goddamn markings and I’m not doing anything with them! I’ve got this destiny that everyone’s been talking about for the last 25 years and I’m not _doing_ anything about it. I used to have Michael and Noma and hell, even Gabriel to go to battle with, and now I’ve got nobody.”

She stood watching him, her arms crossed. “Is that it? Are you done?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you done complaining? Are you done telling me how hard your life is? How you’re too special to be here?

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh really? Because that sure as hell is how it sounded. You _had_ a purpose, but not now. This,” she waved her hand in the air, taking in the house and the houses around them, “this isn’t good enough for _the Chosen One._ ” Her tone was heavy with sarcasm. “The Wildcats aren’t good enough for the Savior of Vega.”

“That’s not what I said!”

“Isn’t it? ‘ _I’m Commander Lannon’s son, that’s all!’_ ” she repeated mockingly. “Seriously? I can’t believe you’re her son, you’re nothing like her. It’s not about you, you whiny, selfish son of a bitch. This war isn’t about the Chosen One, it’s about everyone else out there, _everyone_! That’s what your mother knew, that was what drove her. You? You haven’t got a goddamn clue.”

She walked determinedly back to the table, grabbed her bag and started packing the food back into it. Alex stared at her mutely. He watched her as she shoved her feet into her boots near the door, not bothering to lace them, then reached for her flak jacket.

“What are you doing?” he finally asked.

“I’m no archangel, I’m not from Vega.” She held up the vest. “I don’t have any magical powers, just Kevlar. I’m obviously not ‘special’ enough to work with you, so I’ll just be on my way.”

“What? No.” He grabbed at her arm.

That was a mistake. With shocking speed, Naomi had him by the wrist, had that wrist twisted behind his back and had him slammed forcefully up against the nearest wall. She leaned heavily into him, her body pressing into his, simultaneously pulling up on his bent arm so that his shoulder screamed in pain. “Don’t,” she hissed into his ear. “Don’t _ever_ grab me. _They_ do that, the eight-balls, they grab you and they tear at you and all you can see is those damn black eyes.” She shoved him hard into the wall, then let go, backing away.

Alex turned around, a combination of horror and bewilderment on his face. He rubbed at his shoulder while he watched Naomi go back to the table and start collecting her things again.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was so low it was barely audible. “I’m sorry,” he said again, this time more loudly. “You’re right, I’m…” He faltered.

“Wallowing in self-pity?”

“No!” he retorted. “I’m…I’m just so fucking alone in this mess. It’s all falling apart and I don’t know what to do!”

Naomi marched toward him again. “That’s where you’re wrong, Lannon, that’s what you’re too damn pig-headed to see.” She spread her palm against the markings on his chest, visible beneath the torn front of his shirt. “Just because you’re the only one with _these_ doesn’t mean you’re the only one in the war. We’re all here to fight, we’re all here to fight beside you. We’re in this together!”

He grasped at her hand, still pressed against his chest, while myriad emotions flashed across his face. Anger, fear, relief, hope. His body started to tremble and his breath came in short, forceful huffs.

“Alex.” Naomi’s voice was gentler now. Still stern, but kind. Her other hand cupped the side of his face where just moments before she had struck him. “You’re not alone.”

His body continued to shake, the tremors worsening, a kind of emotional shock. “I’m scared, I’m really scared. I feel like it’s all coming apart.”

She ran her fingers through his hair, a comforting gesture. “I get it. We’re all scared. But you don’t have to take it out on your partner, ok?”

He nodded, then bowed his head, letting it fall onto her shoulder. “God, I’m an ass.”

“Yes,” she laughed softly, “yes, you are.” She reached her other hand up, drawing him into a tighter embrace. He burrowed into the crook of her neck, grateful for her touch. They stood like that for a minute, a kind of mental reset, but he couldn’t stop shaking.

With infinite tenderness, she kissed the top of his head, his temple, then carefully lifted his chin and kissed his forehead. She was so gentle, so sweet after he had been so cruel to her, it hurt his soul. By the time her lips brushed over his eyes, they were wet with tears.

Her kisses continued – his cheek, his mouth. He shuddered in her arms.

She continued to hold him close, his head pressed against her neck. Her skin was warm and he breathed in her scent – sunshine and good, clean soap. He held on tighter, trying to halt the quaking, trying to steady the trembling that came from his very core. 

Her cheek pressed against his and her breath whispered in his ear. “It’s ok. Let it out.”

“ _No_.” It came out as a barely audible sound, a kind of gut-wrenching cry.

“Let it out, Lannon. You’re safe here, just let it out.”

His fingers curled into claws, his shoulders bent around her, his entire body tightening like a coiled wire, a volcano about to explode, all of his emotional turmoil suddenly transformed into physical tension. With a kind of animal moan that came from deep inside, he grasped at her hair, pulling at her head – he wanted her near and he wanted her away and he didn’t know what he wanted. 

Beneath the smooth caramel-colored skin of her neck, he could see the feather-beat of her pulse. He watched it quicken, an intoxicating, beckoning sight. His mouth covered it – he wanted to feel the thrum of it on his tongue, feel the life of her against his lips. Suddenly – violently – he wanted to feel everything, all of it. His hands pulled at the collar of her shirt – he needed to feel her skin, more of her delicious, warm skin against his own.

Without warning, he turned and backed her into the wall, hands pinning her shoulders back. He stared at her without a word, his eyes still sparkling with unshed tears, full of questions he couldn’t find the strength to ask.

Naomi met his gaze. “Alex. _Let it out._ ”

His mouth crushed against hers, a wild mélange of lips and tongues and teeth, brutal and violent and life-affirming at the same time. His hands tore at her clothes, at his own, until they were scattered across the room like so many toddler’s toys.

The sex was rough and it was raw, and there was little if any artistry involved. They never made it back to the bedroom, but there were chairs and a table and a floor and whatever else could be used.

It was loud and it was wild and it was exhilarating and comical.

It was…cathartic.

In the end, they lay tangled together on the couch in the afterglow of mutual gratification and exhaustion. Alex rested his head on her chest, an unusual position for him, but it was soft and warm and seemed oddly safe. Her fingers mindlessly wound through the curls in his hair, something that had bothered him so when the women of Helena tried it. Now it was relaxing, comfortably familiar. 

For a little while they were content to simply lay there, the sheet that had been draped over the couch now draped over their bodies. The afternoon sun snuck through the slats on the shutters, dappling the room with tiny bands of light while dust motes danced in the glow. It was quiet and peaceful, a welcome respite to the chaos that had so recently reigned over Alex’s life.

“Feel better?” Naomi asked in a hush. It seemed sacrilege to speak any louder.

Alex sighed. “Yeah.” He drew a line of tender kisses up toward her throat. “Sorry if I left any marks.”

“If I didn’t like it, I would have stopped you.”

“I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean – “

She shushed him with a finger to his lips. Both had said things they would rather take back.

For a moment, he merely watched her. She lay with her head back, her eyes closed, her mouth curved up gently with a hint of secret satisfaction. It would be easy to fall in love with her, he thought. He was drawn to strong women, and Naomi certainly fit that. She was beautiful in her own way, without pretense or fuss. She had a sense of humor, but also a sense of honor.

He could fall in love with her, but he wouldn’t. She didn’t want that. 

And he couldn’t, not now, not when there was already someone else who held his heart.

“S’up to you,” she started, still playing with his blond locks. “If you want to talk, I’m right here. If you don’t want to, I understand. Obviously, you’ve got some things on your mind, but it’s your choice.”

He lay his head back down, feeling the velvet of her skin against his cheek. “Maybe. Can I ask you a question first?”

“Shoot.” She snuggled into the couch a little further, adjusting her other arm around his back. “What do you want to know?”

“What happened to your husband?”

She was silent and still and Alex thought he had made a mistake. Then she went back to twining her fingers through his hair. “Rick had curls, too. I love curls on a guy.” 

Alex couldn’t see it, but he could feel her smiling at the memory. “I was pretty young when I met him,” she continued. “I guess it was about twelve years ago. We had the classic whirlwind romance; I think we dated for a whole month before we got married. It was…it was wonderful.” She sighed. “Rick was part of Commander Lannon’s First Platoon, the best of the best. This was right when she was named Commander-in-Chief. God,” she laughed, “I keep forgetting that she’s your mother.”

“It’s a little hard for me to think of her that way,” Alex admitted. “I didn’t know her for very long. To me, it was like she had a day job, but she was mostly just my mom.”

Naomi was silent for a while. “Rick’s squad went out east on a mission. They were looking for tires.” She sounded bitter. “Of all things, _tires_. Commander Lannon was really pushing to get supplies in, prepping for another offensive. I thought at the time that she was trying to make her mark, to do things ‘her way,’ not Colonel Andrews’ way. Anyway, your mom had some intel about a warehouse that was in good shape and supposedly stacked with the things, so she sent out the platoon and some S&R equipment. The problem was that her intel had missed the other guys that had the same idea, humans and eight-balls together, a small army of them. It was a massacre.”

Alex wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. “I’m sorry.”

“I was, too. I was a kid when the Extermination War started, and I over the years I gradually lost everybody that I knew. I thought that that’s how my life would be, I’d be lonely and alone until the eight-balls got me, too. Then I met Rick and I realized that life wasn’t just waiting to die. I found happiness and then…then it got stolen away from me. I was lonely and alone again, waiting for the eight-balls to get me.

“For a long time, I blamed your mom. I mean, she was the one that sent them on that mission, it was her stupid idea, her intel. I hated her and I hated the Wildcats – it was eating me up. They discharged me from active duty for depression and I got a job at the school, but that didn’t really help. Every day it was harder and harder to get out of bed and see those kids, knowing that she was going to turn them into cannon fodder one day, that she was going to send them on some stupid useless mission and they would die, too. I kept feeling worse and worse, depression and anger and all sorts of mental shit.”

For a moment she paused, following the memory in her mind, seeing it play out once again. “One day, a couple weeks later, there I am with the kids – the little ones, you know, like 3 and 4 years old – and in walks your mom. I almost attacked her – I mean I had to physically _sit on my hands_ to keep from strangling her. She comes in and chats with the teacher and then asks if she can sit down with my kids and I’m there so upset that I can’t even _speak_. So, she sits down and starts talking to them, talking like they’re little grown-ups, listening to all of their stories, paying complete attention to every detail, asking all these questions. They talk about dinosaurs and fairy princesses and the class frog, everything. Pretty soon, they’re climbing on her, practically wrestling with her, piling on and pinning her to the floor and she’s laughing so hard she can hardly breathe. They ask what she does, and she tells them that she’s the Commander of the Wildcats, and one of the little girls looks at her and says ‘Mama Cat.’ Your mom loves that, you can see it in her eyes. She picks up that little girl and hugs her like that name was the best present she’d ever gotten.

“Right after that, the kids head home, so I start cleaning up, that was part of my job. Your mom is still sitting on the floor, this look of total bliss on her face, but at the same time, tears are just running down her cheeks. ‘They make this worthwhile,’ she says. ‘I want so desperately to give them a childhood, to give them love and laughter and play, before it’s time.’ I know what she’s talking about – our training starts at 12, and by 16 every kid is either a soldier or working, farming, doing something for the community. Kids grow up fast now.

“Then she stands up and turns to me. ‘You’re Rick Lopez’ wife, aren’t you?’ I’m still too mad to talk, I keep wiping up the table. She reaches out and takes my hand, holding tight. ‘You’re the last, the last one I need to talk to. I’m sorry it took so long.’ And then she starts talking about Rick, about how she thought he was so amazing, and all this stuff he’d done that I didn’t even know – how they had gone on missions together, all these stories of things that he had done but never told me about. We sit there for a couple of hours and she tells me all about the man I had been married to. She’d known him for years, knew him better than I did really, and eventually I realize that she misses him just as much as I do, that she feels a terrible guilt about sending the platoon out on that mission. 

“It sounds so cliché, but we talked and we laughed and we cried and, in the end, I didn’t hate her anymore. I was still angry, but I was angry at the world, not at her. After that, I re-enlisted and asked to be put on S&R. I wanted to honor Rick, to honor his sacrifice.” She laughed softly. “But I still hate tires.”

Alex lay there, stunned. He’d never expected her to open up so completely to him. For a few minutes they lay there in silence. He unconsciously stroked her side with his thumb, a tiny little caress. “I don’t know what to say,” he finally admitted.

“You don’t have to say anything. I’m just passing it on. Your mom told me stories about Rick, I thought I’d tell you a story about her.”

“Thank you.” He meant it; every word he had heard was treasured. “People treat her like she was a saint or something. I want to know what she was really like.”

“Maybe not a saint, but definitely our protector. We used to say ‘guardian angel’ back when I was a little kid, but that means something completely different now,” she snickered. “No, she wasn’t perfect, in fact, she could be a ruthless bitch, but if she made a mistake, she owned up to it. And she was willing to forgive other peoples’ mistakes. That meant a lot.”

“I obviously didn’t get that from her.”

“I got that impression.” She rubbed the side of his face with the back of her knuckles. “You ever going to forgive her for dying?”

Alex didn’t respond.

“I had to forgive Rick for dying, for leaving me. It took a little while. I had to forgive your mom for sending him out there. I had to realize that there are things that are beyond all of us, that shit happens that we have no control over.”

That was part of the problem, Alex realized, things seemed to be spinning out of control. They had all come here, he and Michael and Gabriel and Jenkins, come to find some way to counter Lucifer before he gained too much power. But with Laurel here and Michael fussing over her, and Gabriel bringing in Raphael, _Raphael!_ His teeth ground against each other just thinking about her.

“I miss her. My mom. I feel like she could have made sense out of all of this, she would have figured out a way to stop Lucifer. I don’t just miss ‘ _my mom,’_ I miss ‘ _Commander Lannon_.’ We could really use her now.”

“I know what you mean. She had a way of bringing people together.”

“Exactly. And we’re not…I mean, together…right now. It’s all falling apart.”

Naomi kissed the top of his head. “No, it’s not; it just feels that way. Give Jenkins some time, he’s a good commander. And the two archangels – they’ll figure it out. I have faith.”

Alex snorted. “Faith? In angels? You don’t know them like I do.”

“Really?” She snuggled in a little more and wrapped her arms around him even tighter. “If you didn’t believe this was going to work out somehow, you wouldn’t be here. You would have bailed already, or maybe you would have stayed back in Vega. Deep down inside you think this is the right place to be, with Jenkins and with the archangels and with all of us, that whatever we do against Lucifer is going to work. You have faith, too.”

Alex rested his head against her breast, feeling the soft warmth of her skin, the gentle thrum of her heartbeat, the strength of her arms around him, as if she was willing her belief, her faith, into him. 

But she was right – he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t hold out some hope. That was all he had left right now, hope. Hope that he could do what needed to be done when the time came, hope that he was the savior that he was supposed to be.

Right now, he didn’t feel like a savior. He felt instead protected, safe and warm.

How did she always know what he needed?

Later that evening, Alex stood outside one of the numerous steel and concrete monstrosities erected on the far side of the Redstone Arsenal base. He gazed around in wonder once again – the place was so huge! Different people had told him about the rockets that had been stored and tracked from various buildings here but he found it all a little hard to believe. He wasn’t big on science, never had been, and the idea of sending a rocket into space just for the sake of sending a rocket into space seemed a little foolish.

Nonetheless, there was proof enough of what had gone on at the base – buildings full of fancy hardware and computers, radio antennae that sat precariously on rooftops, even a giant fuselage slowing turning to rust. He knew that the Wildcat radio was based on satellite, not a regular frequency, so he had to accept that the rockets had actually done their job all those years ago.

He wondered if man would ever reach for the stars like that again.

His job now, however, was to continue to map the base, to get an idea of what was worth looking into for salvage and what was already too decayed to bother. Once he’d finished his shift with Naomi, he’d talked Captain Jack into giving him an additional detail. He wasn’t sure if it was out of guilt over what he’d said to her or to try to get away from the thoughts that were constantly running through his head, but he needed something to do with himself, something…valuable. He knew that if he was given too much time and not enough to fill it, he would inevitably end up sitting and brooding over the ever-expanding list of things that were going wrong.

This time he’d been teamed up with another captain, an older man who had been military even before the War. Harris was a man of few words, gruff and demanding, but that suited Alex just fine right now. It was a nice change to be told what to do and not have to think for a little while.

Harris had gone off by himself to scout the building, leaving Alex behind in the Humvee with orders to keep his radio on. There was no evidence of any activity in the area, either human or eight-ball, so there was little concern that they would be attacked or otherwise bothered. Harris headed into the dark of the building, his powerful flashlight striking a white beam across the large, empty space inside. It was probably another rocket bunker but Harris would fully explore the place to make sure.

Which left Alex outside, watching as the afterglow of the sun slowly fell below the line of concrete buildings that made up most of the horizon. Once again, he marveled at the scope of the base, really a small city. It might have even rivaled Vega in size.

He pulled out a map that Mouse had found in one of the administration buildings and turned on the overhead light on the Humvee, trying to orient himself on the web of streets. Off to the northeast was the airfield – he knew about that; they had used it to launch the drone. The houses that he had scouted with Naomi over the last three days were also north, past the miniature forest he could see on the horizon.

Trees – there were so many of them here, and so many kinds. The trip up to New Haven had been an eye-opener, emotionally difficult, but at the same time almost soul refreshing. There was so much life, so much green, so much outside of Vega that he had yet to experience. He’d seen the land around Helena but it was very different from this area, much more coastal, almost tropical. Then there had been the scrub around New Delphi. Now, here in what had formerly been Alabama, things were the same and yet different, different kinds of life – animals and birds and plants – but still such a wonder. He felt as if he could spend his entire life exploring it all.

Harris’s voice on the radio broke into his reverie. “Lannon, call into Base and tell them to put this building on Recovery. Lots of electronics in good shape. I’m going to go upstairs and check out what else they might have hiding.”

“Copy that.” Alex switched frequencies and called into the main C&C. They had already given the building a designation – NW116 – so all he had to do was relay the information, then sit back and wait for Harris to return.

The night was clear and the stars slowly made their way up into the darkness, battling against the last of the sunset for rule of the sky. Jeep had tried to teach him about the stars back when he was a kid, sitting around a campfire out in the desert. Alex couldn’t recall much of it, but the twinkling lights still brought back good memories.

He glanced down at his arm, at the uniform sleeve that covered the markings underneath. Michael had said that some of the tattoos were actually constellations and stars, that the symbols were for the stars Vega, and Lyrae, and the Morning Star.

Michael might have been able to read those, but he couldn’t understand all of the markings. He hadn’t been able to read the one that said “Beware those closest to you.” 

Who could have imagined that it would be _Noma_ that he should have been wary of?

Alex rolled his eyes at himself as his mind traveled down the exact path he was trying to avoid. So much for those good memories…

Harris radioed in again, a trace of excitement in his usually stern manner. He’d found a cache of documents and was going through them, looking for anything that might lead them toward other buildings that held promise. Alex would be on guard duty for a little while longer.

The night was starting to fill with noises; the rush of a bird’s wings, the skitter of a rodent, the call of a prey animal. Alex didn’t mind being alone, that wasn’t the problem. He just wanted something to _do_ , something other than standing around. He had volunteered for this shift to try to get his mind off his problems, not to have time to sit and dwell on them. 

There was a rustle from the side of the building, then a voice, barely above a whisper. “Hey, soldier.”

Alex spun around, peering into the darkness, his weapon up and the safety off. There was something familiar about that voice, yet at the same time the hair stood up at the back of his neck. “Who’s there?”

“Alex, it’s me.” From around the corner, a figure approached, hands raised.

The moon had not yet risen to lend its light to the velvety sky. Alex couldn’t make out any features of the stranger other than a dark shirt and cargo pants. He flicked on the light mounted to the side of his rifle.

His heart seemed to stop. “Noma?”

“Hey,” she smiled, shielding her eyes from the glare. “You trying to blind me or something? Turn that thing off.”

He didn’t turn the light off but pointed it past her, away from her face. In the wash of the beam, he could see her – her straight hair pulled back in the familiar braid, her dark eyes warm and friendly, a half-smile playing across her generous mouth. Noma, just as she had always been.

“Long time no see, huh?” she said, still keeping her voice low. “How’ve you been?”

“What?” He stared at her in disbelief. “How have I been? Are you kidding me? What the hell are you doing here?”

Her pretty face fell. “I came to see you.”

His jaw slack, he shook his head in bewilderment. “You left me, Noma. You left and you joined Lucifer. You turned your back on all of us and you left.”

“I know that’s what you think.” Her brow furrowed as she tried to find the words to explain. “I couldn’t stay, Alex. You don’t understand what it was like. I tried to explain it to you, to Michael. Without my wings, I was nothing. I wasn’t human, I wasn’t an angel, I was nothing. My wings make me what I am, I had to get them back.”

“That’s bullshit, Noma. You weren’t ‘nothing.’ With or without your wings, Michael trusted you with his life, with my life. You were my best friend, I loved you. Didn’t that mean anything to you?”

She turned away, out of the glare of the flashlight. “I can’t make you understand, Alex, you’re human.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“No, no that’s not what I mean. You just don’t understand the loss.”

“ _Loss?!”_ The word burst from him and he glanced back at the building, afraid Harris might have heard. “You think I don’t understand loss?” he whispered hoarsely, trying to get himself back under control. “I’ve lost almost everyone I’ve ever loved, including you.”

“But I’m back now.” She hurried over to him, pushing aside the rifle. She rested her hands on his chest. “I came back for you.”

He stepped away angrily. “What are you wearing?”

“A uniform.” She frowned. “What are you wearing?”

Alex grabbed at her shoulder and caught hold of the patch that covered it. Even in the low light, the black stitching was evident against the olive drab, an embroidered feline, a simple black cat.

He yanked her close. “Take it off.”

“Wow. I didn’t think we were going to go there right away but…” She started unbuttoning the shirt, her eyebrows raised, her tone sultry. “I missed you, too.”

“That’s NOT what I mean!” Alex was trying hard to keep his voice down but his anger was getting the best of him. He glanced back toward the building where Harris was hopefully still working. “You don’t deserve to wear that uniform. The Wildcats, they’re good people, my mother’s people. You’re not one of them.”

Her head dropped. “I needed to blend in.”

“You needed to blend in so you could spy on us, for Lucifer.”

“That’s not true, Alex, I came to see you. I swear, that’s the only reason I’m here. I’m sorry about the uniform, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Take it off!”

“I don’t have anything else to change into!”

He turned away and rubbed his forehead with his hand, the other still holding the rifle. “Do you honestly expect me to believe anything you have to say? You’re just like all of them, say one thing and do another.”

“All of who?”

“Angels!” He spun toward her again. “All you goddamned angels. I can’t trust any of you. I’d be better off on my own.”

She reached up toward him. “Alex, what happened?”

“What _didn’t_ happen? You left and everything fell apart. _Everything!_ We won back Vega, sure, but what was the cost? Thousands of people died, Nomes, thousands! And then we were stuck with Gabriel, and surprise! He’s my father.”

“Gabriel is your father?” She was stunned.

“Like you don’t know.” Again, he backed away from her, anxious to put distance between them. He flicked the light up again; he wanted to see her face. “Just like you don’t know about my mom.”

Noma’s eyes grew wide. “What do you mean? “

“I found her, I found my mom.”

She shook her head. “No, she’s dead. She died saving you when you were a baby.”

“She didn’t die.” He set his rifle back down on the hood and leaned against it, crossing his arms, his casual posture in stark contrast to the steel in his tone. Her reaction had seemed staged, fake. “Gabriel saved her, I don’t understand how, but he did.”

“That’s…that’s wonderful, Alex. You must be so happy.”

“I was.” Again, that cold, steely voice. “Until Raphael put a knife in her back and finished the job you started.”

“What are you talking about?” she countered nervously. “I didn’t start anything.”

“I know, Noma. I know all about it. I know that it was you with Gabriel that Christmas day, not eight-balls. I know that you’re the one who put a sword through my mom’s chest.”

Her mouth opened but no sound came out. It was the final confirmation that Alex needed; he’d listened to the story his mother had told him, the story that had come from Michael, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it was actually true. Now he knew.

“Why, Nomes? Why’d you do it? Why try to kill my mom?”

Noma looked as if she was about to vomit. “I didn’t understand, Alex. I thought that Gabriel was right, I thought that the Chosen One needed to die to bring back our Father. Your mom, she was…she was…in the way.”

Alex watched silently as tears slowly filled the angel’s green eyes, spilling down her cheeks. “Is that what Lucifer is saying now,” he asked, “that I’m in the way, that I have to die to bring your Father back? Or does he have other ideas for my death?”

Once again, she shook her head back and forth. Her hands wiped at the tears that streamed down her face but she said nothing.

“Tell your boss I’m not interested in his plans. I’m not going to be his sacrifice. As far as I’m concerned all of you can go back to hell with him.”

“Alex,” she pleaded, “I’m not –”

He cut her off brusquely. “No more lies.” Once again, he glanced over at the building. A ghost of a light could be seen bobbing down what appeared to be stairs. “You should go now. I don’t want to try to explain what a higher angel is doing in a Wildcat uniform.”

She backed away, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, I should.” Her voice caught with the last word.

Alex turned away from her, back toward the Humvee, a silent dismissal.

“I’ll see you later, ok? Alex?”

He picked up his rifle again; it wouldn’t do to be caught without his weapon by someone as old-school as Harris and the light from the old man’s torch was getting brighter.

When he turned back again, Noma was gone.

Alex took a long, deep breath and tried to work some of the tension out of his body. He could feel his hands shake around the rifle stock. So much for getting away from his problems.

Now he really wasn’t going to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 15_

_Redstone Arsenal_

After three days of shifts with both Naomi and Harris, Alex was tired, which was exactly what he wanted. The night before, he’d fallen into his cot in near exhaustion and been asleep before pesky memories and introspection had bothered to keep him awake.

Tonight, he was tired and more than a little irritable, and he knew it. The path from the mess hall to his barracks was blessedly short and peacefully unoccupied because the last thing he wanted to do was have a chat with some well-meaning stranger. The Wildcats had various activities meant to keep up morale – bonfires, a pick-up football game and something called ‘frisbee’, but he wanted no part of it, not now. Right now, the Chosen One was busy being irritated.

He was trying, really trying, to see things as Naomi had put them, to keep things in perspective even as they seemed to be spinning out of control. He appreciated her more than he could say; she might have been the only thing keeping him sane. The memory of their quiet times together was often enough to still his rampaging thoughts.

 _Let’s just not think about that fight,_ he told himself. _You really are an ass, Lannon._

He understood now that what he was doing was important – important to the Wildcats, at least – but he was still out of the loop when it came to the battle plans for Lucifer. He was being kept to the side, sequestered, like a singer brought in to perform only one song in an opera.

_Alone._

Jenkins and the Wildcats had their well-thought-out plans, and as much as Alex wanted to be involved, he had to admit that he was impressed with what he could see. He understood that he was not part of that group, he didn’t have their history or their training, but it didn’t make being left on the sidelines any easier.

Gabriel had been suspiciously missing since he had returned from Mallory. He’d probably gone on some super-secret archangel-only task for Jenkins, something else that Alex couldn’t help out with.

Not that he really wanted to be spending a whole lot of time with his father. It remained absolutely mind-boggling that Gabriel had had the balls to actually bring Raphael, _Charlie’s killer_ , to the base. Alex had to consciously calm himself down every time he thought about it, lest he accidently start some poor unfortunate door ablaze.

_He really needed to get that under control. If only he had a mentor, someone like, oh, the Archangel Michael…_

Michael – well, if Michael had left the infirmary since Raphael’s appearance, Alex hadn’t heard about it. Between Laurel and Raphael…Alex swore softly under his breath. Michael was the whole freaking reason that he was here, and now that it came down to actually getting prepped for whatever they were going to be facing, Michael was more worried about his girlfriend and his damn sister than the Chosen One. Fat lot of help he was.

And then there was Noma.

_Nomes, Nomes, what the hell?_

It was all so messed up. He tried to remember what Naomi had said, about faith and hope, but now, in the dark of night after a long day digging through the graves of people’s lives, it was hard to do.

Across the jagged skyline, the moon was rising and the wind had picked up, a certain bite in the air that reminded him that autumn was well on its way. Here in Alabama it was still warm during the day but the nights were definitely getting cooler. The tranquil scent of trees and grass filled the crisp air, a calming aromatherapy direct from Mother Nature, and he stopped to breath it all in, to take the edge off the anger, to try to find some peace.

“You’ve been difficult to find.”

“What the fu-” He wheeled about, weapon ready. Gabriel came from around a corner and stood there, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his face a mask of casual annoyance. 

“What is it with you angels?” Alex dropped his gun to his side. “Do you get some thrill out of scaring the shit out of people?”

Gabriel shrugged. Truth be told, it was one of his more favorite pastimes. There had been one old man a few millennia ago – but no, he didn’t have time for fond remembrances right now. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“You found me. Good bye,” Alex snapped and started walking.

“Alex!” Gabriel was forced to give up his perch and hurry after his son. “We need to talk.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you and I really don’t want to hear anything you have to say to me.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes dramatically; this was going worse than he had expected. He reached out and grabbed at his son’s arm, spinning him around. “You’re even more stubborn than your mother.”

Alex tried to wrench out of the angel’s grip but failed. “Don’t talk about her, don’t you _ever_ talk about her. You lost the right to talk about her when you let her die.”

“You act as if you are the only one to ever lose someone you love.” Gabriel’s voice was eerily calm even as his features were set in growing intensity. “Everyone here lost Charlotte. They’ve lost brothers and sisters, children and lovers. _Everyone_.”

Alex glared back at his father while Naomi’s story echoed in his mind. “That may be true, but they didn’t bring her murderer back here,” he hissed.

Gabriel shoved him away. “She’s my sister.”

“She was willing to kill you and me – hell, she almost cut Michael in half! I think that kind of breaks the whole family bond thing.”

“ _That_ is what you don’t understand! _That_ is what you refuse to see! That bond is forever, Alex, it _cannot_ be broken.” Gabriel was nearly shouting now and he didn’t want that. He paused to get himself under control. “Even when Michael rejected me, when he chose _you_ above all else, I loved him. When I was infected with the Darkness and had my sword to Michael’s neck, I could see it in his eyes – he still loved me. We are family, there is _nothing_ stronger.”

The archangel’s hand went to his chest and rubbed at a phantom pain. “There was a time, a time when I thought I felt Michael’s death. That was the moment that I began to realize what I had done, the monster that I had become. The loss of him, the loss of my brother…” He stopped talking and his brow furrowed as he sought the words. “I don’t want to feel that loss again. If we can save Raphael, save her from death, save her from Lucifer, then we must do it.”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything. She’s a murderer and will always be a murderer.”

Gabriel grasped Alex’s shoulders. “Yes, she is, but Raphael was not in her right mind when she did it. You don’t know her, she’s always abhorred violence. It wasn’t her, it was Lucifer.”

Now it was his mother’s words in Alex’s mind. _“The more I find out about angels, the more I think they’re all crazy, at least at some time or other. I don’t think they can help it.”_ Raphael had certainly been acting crazy, but it was no excuse, no defense for putting a blade into his mother’s back.

“No,” he shook his head. “No, it doesn’t make it right. My mom’s dead, she’s not coming back this time. Raphael did that.”

“Yes, she did. And it’s not right. But there’s something you need to think about – Raphael is your family, too. We’re all you have left.”

“Is that supposed to cheer me up? My family? My father, who nearly destroyed the world, Raphael, who killed my mother, and Michael, who’s deserted all of us for some woman he hooked up with in Mallory?”

Gabriel let out a snort of disgust. “Yes, and all of us going our separate ways.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Strange how when we most need to work together, forces are tearing us apart.”

Alex thought again about how Laurel had arrived, taking Michael out of the picture. Then Raphael, causing the split between father and son (not that there was a whole helluva lot of relationship to begin with, but whatever.) Then, two nights ago, Noma’s arrival. She certainly was a distraction of one type or another, he was still sorting that out in his heart.

For a split-second he almost told Gabriel about Noma’s visit, then stopped himself. Not yet, not until he better understood what was going on. However, he had to admit that his father’s theory held more than a little bit of truth. “You think it’s Lucifer?”

“I think it would be foolish not to consider it, there are too many coincidences.”

 _More than you know_ , Alex thought. Then he said aloud, “What are you going to do about it?”

Gabriel was pleased. The situation had gone from confrontation to conversation faster than he had expected. “We must determine if Laurel and Raphael are willing participants in this scheme. Otherwise they are pawns in Lucifer’s chess match like the rest of us.”

“I don’t like the idea of being a pawn.” 

“I don’t much care for it either, but we know that Lucifer has been manipulating both our lives since before you were born. He’s not above using anyone to achieve his goals.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed in thought. “I never had a lot of time for games, but Claire used to play. She was good. She told me once that a pawn can checkmate a king.”

A slow, wicked smile spread across the archangel’s face. “Yes, yes he can.”

His son was silent for a few minutes, his gaze wandering off to a place and time that would haunt both of them forever. “I can’t forgive your sister. Don’t ask me to.”

“I’m not. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I can forgive her myself.”

“What are you going to do with her then?”

Gabriel sighed. “I don’t know. Jenkins is less than pleased to have her under his roof, but there is nowhere else to take her, not in her state. Lucifer was quite thorough.”

Alex’s shook his head slowly. It was obvious he didn’t care what condition the tiny archangel was in or how she got there.

“There will be a guard on her day and night,” Gabriel noted.

“Are you telling me that or warning me?”

“Leave her alone, Alex. Don’t play into Lucifer’s hands.”

The young man let out an audible sound of disgust. He searched for words, but he could find none; once again there were too many thoughts swirling through his head. How did it all fit together – Laurel, Raphael and now Noma? Finally, he threw up his hands in frustration and turned to start back on the path toward his quarters, leaving Gabriel standing there alone.

“We pawns need to stay together, Alex!” his father called after him. “It’s the only way we can win this war.”

Refusing to turn around, the Chosen One kept walking.

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 16_

_Redstone Arsenal_

The pain woke Alex from a deep but troubled sleep. He’d been dreaming of going into yet another home, another house-shaped mausoleum filled with death and decay. This particular dream house had been filled with children’s bodies, their skeletal remains lying scattered across the room, blocking his way. He had needed to push them aside with his boot to stumble toward the hallway, but the little skeletons had covered that floor, too. Everywhere he looked, bones were draped over furniture or splayed along the floorboards, they sat up in the corners, their gaping mouths and sightless eyes following his every move.

Then one had grabbed his arm, its sharp, bony fingers clawing into it. It felt as if his skin was being punctured by red-hot steel rods, burning through the flesh…

Alex sat up in his cot, stifling the scream that fought to break free. He rubbed and scraped at his left arm, trying to rip away the feeling of that horrible grip, the pain of those scorching bones, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. As quietly as he could, he pulled on shirt and pants and hurried out of the dark room, hoping not to waken those around him.

Outside, the sun was just starting to come up, the light a gentle rose color, the air sharp and cold. He stumbled around the corner, clutching his arm to his chest, trying desperately not cry out. It had never hurt like this before.

Wrenching up his sleeve, he thrust his shaking arm out in front of him. Just visible in the early dawn, the markings swirled over his skin like leaves in a stream, twisting and twining up around his wrist, his elbow. And there, in the middle, he could see new lines, new black circles, like the designs on his right arm that had warned of Lyrae and Lucifer. The lines shifted and moved, aligning and separating, until a distinct pattern emerged – three small dots in a row, with two larger dots below and three above. As he watched, the three center dots grew darker and darker, while the others remained a lighter shade; even in the middle of the pain he had to wonder about that.

Gradually the burning faded away, leaving him sweaty and shaken and slumped against the wall. He gulped in deep breaths of the brisk morning air, trying to get his heart back to some kind of normal rhythm and staring at the new tattoos.

He had no idea what they meant.

Alex entered the infirmary just a short time later. He’d returned to his bunk to grab shoes and socks, then made his way quickly across the base. There were only two places that Michael could be found lately – with Laurel or with Raphael – and they were both in the same building.

He found his quarry walking outside the room where Raphael was still hospitalized. The archangel’s head was bowed and his forehead wrinkled with worry.

“Michael,” the young man called.

“Alex.” Michael’s face brightened, then looked even more concerned. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m fine but I need to talk to you.”

“What is it?”

Alex glanced at the door to Raphael’s room, seeing the two guards stationed outside. “Maybe not right here.”

Michael considered this for a moment then started down the hallway. “In here,” he motioned, coming to a door.

Inside, Alex found himself in a room that had been converted into storage for the medical supplies that had been brought along or found on the base. Boxes lined one wall, linens and blankets were stacked along another. The Wildcats were preparing for the worst. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t been available to you,” Michael started. “I don’t want you to think that Laurel’s arrival in any way affects our relationship.”

“I know.” Alex said. “You’re going to be a father, it changes things.” 

“Not how important you are.”

There was an unspoken agreement between them not to bring up the subject of Raphael, at least not yet. 

Alex moved toward the bank of windows where the sunlight was now streaming in. “Maybe you can help me with this.” He rolled up the sleeve on his left arm. “These showed up last night, they hurt like hell.”

Michael moved into a better position to take the Chosen One’s arm into his hands, slowly turning it left and right. “You’ve never had these markings before.”

“No, not these. They just appeared; they woke me up. I thought my arm was burning off.”

The frown returned to the archangel’s face. “These are different than the others. See here where the three circles are darker than the rest?”

“Yeah, I noticed. I guess we’re moving into ‘shading’ now.”

“No, it’s more than that. If you look,” he pointed to the first three dots, almost in a triangle, then the lower two. “These circles frame the three in the middle, but they are all part of one design. This looks to me like the constellation Orion.”

“Orion? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Orion is the hunter. It’s seen in the winter months – we’re moving into those days. But more importantly,” he drew his fingers along the line of three darker marks, “this is Orion’s Belt. It’s also known as the Three Sisters.”

Alex pulled his arm back and squinted down at the tattoos as if that would make them speak to him more clearly. “Three Sisters?”

“Yes. Your previous markings foretold of Lyrae’s desire to take Vega, and of Lucifer’s return. This can only be a portent of some kind.” He considered the notion for a bit. “I’m tempted to say that this refers to Laurel and Raphael, but that is only two.”

Pushing his sleeve back down, Alex bowed his head. “Yeah. About that.”

“I know how you feel about my sister.”

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, yeah, but…” He wasn’t sure how to proceed. “I probably should have told you before, but with Laurel showing up, and then Raphael…”

“Alex, what is it?”

“I’ve seen Noma.”

“You have? Where?”

“Here, on the base. Twice now. She said she wanted to talk to me. I blew her off the first time.”

“And the second?”

Alex rolled his eyes. He was both embarrassed and annoyed. “That was yesterday – I was with other people and she was hiding behind a building. I saw her but I just kept walking. I think she may have been following me.”

Michael’s head tilted to the side. “Why did you not tell me?”

“Really?” He glanced in the direction of Raphael’s room. “You have to ask that?”

The archangel’s head bowed. He didn’t have an answer.

But perhaps Raphael did. 

The door to the makeshift hospital room opened with an audible _shush_ – it had originally been a small conference and training space and it was well sound- and light-proofed. On the far wall, a screen still hung, testament to its prior, more academic function. 

Now, however, a gurney sat in the middle of the room, flanked by two other, smaller tables. A cluster of lights shone down on the center of the grouping. A tiny form lay there, her back supported by pillows and rolled blankets, her wings spread out to the left and right.

Alex grudgingly followed Michael into the room but stopped as soon as he was inside the door. Seeing Raphael on the bed, a combination of shock, horror and primal rage started to churn within him. His hands tightened into fists at his side and his teeth clenched, but even in his anger he couldn’t fail to see how small, how frail and how broken the little archangel appeared. 

He’d always admired Michael’s wings; they were both completely foreign and yet utterly fascinating, a majestic addition that separated angel from man. Raphael’s wings, however, were nothing like that now. Spread out to each side of her petite body, the feathers (what were left) were dull, broken and scorched. Huge swaths were missing, torn or burned away. The wings themselves, daintier than Michael’s, looked lifeless and bent. Alex could only imagine the pain.

Yet that did not change his feelings. He remained in the corner and watched with barely controlled fury as Michael moved toward the bed. The archangel checked the IV bag that hung from a stand nearby, noting the flow, then reached up and tilted the overhead lamp down and away. Alex’s side of the room was bathed in anonymous darkness.

“Sister.” Michael gently ran the back of his fingers down the side of her face, the side that was less bruised, if that could be said of any part of her body. He’d done what he could to heal her major injuries, to mend the broken bones, the damaged organs, the burns, but at some point, the rapid healing could become a burden, a burden too great for a battered and abused body. He remembered long ago when she had helped to heal him after Gabriel and Uriel’s beating, when he had begged her to use more of the precious quills, to take away the pain, the ache, but she had refused. Cells took energy to regenerate, she explained, toxins needed to be expelled. Do too much and the body would collapse out of fatigue and contamination. 

Especially a body so small. 

Once again, he softly called to her. “Raphael.” 

This time he was rewarded with a gentle flutter of lashes. Opening her eyes was difficult but she persevered. She was grateful for the humans’ painkillers but they made focusing difficult. Licking her cracked lips, she offered a small smile. “Brother.” The expression of love in her sleepy grey eyes spoke the words her drug-addled mind had difficulty finding.

“I’m sorry,” Michael continued, “but it’s time. We must try.”

It took a few seconds for the meaning of his words to work their way through the fog that filled her thoughts, but then she looked up at him with a kind of horror. “No, too soon,” she softly begged.

“It’s been days since Gabriel brought you here, how much longer were you in the forest? If we don’t try now –”

A fragment of a sob cut him off and she nodded, her eyes clenched tight. She’d taught him everything he knew, after all.

Michael sat on the edge of the bed and gently reached for her shoulders, lifting her slowly up from the bed. Her hands clutched at his shirtfront as she tried to sit up, her breath coming fast between huffs of pain.

Finally, she was semi-upright, leaning her head against her brother’s chest. He took each of her arms and moved them around to the back of his neck. “Hold on to me now.” Again, she nodded silently, tightening her grip.

Behind her, Alex could see the black wings drooping lifelessly from her shoulders. He watched as Michael ran his fingers over the top of one wing, smoothing the crumpled feathers along the upper curve. When his hand reached the farthest side, he tenderly grasped the bony end, now denuded of its primary feathers. Gently, gently, he pulled it closer, his other hand helping to flex the joint, to fold the wing upon itself. 

Raphael’s head fell back and she let forth a silent scream. 

“I know, I know,” Michael soothed. “Almost there.” He carefully set the pleated, quivering wing against her back and he reached for the other. “One more time.”

Finally, Michael had the two wings folded to his satisfaction. He took his sister’s face in his two hands. He could feel the sweat that had poured out of her, the shivering aftermath of shock and pain. He smiled at her sweetly. “So close, you can do it. Come now.”

The fear still remained in her eyes, but there was a certain determination there, too. Her teeth clenched in a rictus of agony and her fingers dug into her brother’s arms as she gradually rolled her shoulders back once, then again.

This time she could not hold in the scream and it echoed around the room. Alex’s couldn’t help but to flinch.

The sound went on and on until the little archangel collapsed against her brother. She’d fallen back into unconsciousness but not before she had finished the terrible task. Michael ran his hand down her back, felt the smooth skin between her shoulder blades. He kissed the top of her head. “That’s all, we’re done.” He gently rocked her while he pulled the hospital gown closed behind her. “All done. Lay back, rest now.”

The doors to the room burst open and Dr. Reynolds hurried in. He took one look at Alex then at Michael. “What’s going on here? I could hear screaming out in the hallway.”

Michael finished gently easing his sister back onto the bed, moving the pillows so that she could lay flat. “You needn’t worry, doctor, she’ll be fine.”

“It didn’t sound like it.” The doctor scowled as he moved over to the gurney. “Her wings. What have you done?”

The archangel stood and stretched his neck. He’d have a few marks of his own from her grip on him. “We needed to tuck Raphael’s wings or they would never heal properly. She understood this. It’s a painful process, but it was necessary.”

Reynolds shook his head. “I’m not going to say I understand, I just hope you’re right.”

“I know I am – she did the same thing to me centuries ago. It’s the only reason I am able to fly today.”

“I guess…well, thank you then.” The doctor wasn’t comfortable in the position of student, but in this case, there was little else he knew to try. “Is there something more we can do for her?”

Michael looked down at the unconscious figure and tenderly ran his fingers over her forehead. Her fever had broken, that was good. With her wings tucked now, she would be able to rest more comfortably. “Keep her hydrated, and the painkillers, at least another day of those. I think you’ll see she’ll improve quickly now. She’s small, but she’s always been very determined. For now, let her sleep, it’s the best thing for her.”

He turned back toward the door and motioned the younger man out.

Once outside, Alex grabbed the archangel’s arm, turning him around. “What was that about?”

“You saw. It was a necessity. Her wings might never heal otherwise.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t need to be there to witness it.”

“Didn’t you?”

Alex met the angel’s dark eyes. The sound of Raphael’s screams echoed in his mind; Noma had made the same primal sound as she ripped her wings from her back. “What are you trying to prove to me, that she’s hurt? Yeah, I get it, she got beat up.”

“Lucifer did this to her, Alex. He purposefully caused damage to her wings because she’s an archangel. No other pain or injury would affect her the same way, I don’t know if she will ever be able to use them again. Raphael turned against Lucifer and he turned against her, there’s no denying it.” He leaned in closer. “Whatever she has done in the past, she’s paid a high price.”

“Not high enough,” the young man rasped through clenched teeth, stoking the anger within.

“She’s family, Alex.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, Michael, but your family is seriously messed up. I don’t want any part of it. I’m here to take out Lucifer for the sake of _humanity_ ,” he poked Michael in the chest, “not for you goddamned angels.”

“Lucifer is a threat to all of us, Alex. We need to work together.”

“So everyone keeps telling me, but you’re in here playing doctor and I’m out there running salvage ops. Nothing’s getting done. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

Michael was taken aback. Alex was right; he had forsaken the lad, left him to aimlessly wander the base while he attended first to Laurel, then to Raphael. He’d expected Alex to simply wait until he was needed like some piece of equipment, a special weapon that wouldn’t be brought out until the final battle. He’d forgotten that the Chosen One was really just a young man gifted with a power he had little control over, and less idea how to use.

A young man whose life had been turned upside down in almost every way possible. Michael had been the only constant in Alex’s life for over a decade, and he had essentially abandoned him.

Again.

“I’m sorry, Alex. You’re right, I’ve been distracted. I’ve neglected your training, I’ve been too caught up in my own life. Please forgive me.” 

Now it was Alex’s turn to be stunned. He hadn’t expected the archangel to ask for forgiveness; angels rarely even admitted their mistakes. He felt some of the red fury that burned inside him start to fade. “I get it, I mean, with Laurel. When Claire was pregnant, there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her and the baby.”

“And Raphael?”

Alex shook his head. “Don’t ask me to do that. I can’t forgive her for what she did to my mom.”

It wasn’t any more than Michael had expected. “There may be more to her arrival. Gabriel thinks that Lucifer may have something to do with both Laurel and Raphael, that their purpose here is to drive us apart.”

“Yeah, he said the same thing to me.”

“The idea holds merit.” Michael tilted his head to the side. “I won’t let it happen. I refuse to lose my brother again, and I refuse to lose you.”

Alex looked away. When had everything gotten so complicated? He used to be a simple soldier in love with the general’s’ daughter. Then the eight-balls had come back and all hell had broken loose, literally and figuratively. Finding out he was the Chosen One was only the first step in his march to whatever Fate had in store for him, but along the way everything seemed to be tangled, mixed-up, difficult. Impossible.

“I’m tired, Michael.” He leaned against the wall, his actions proving the truth of his words. “I’m tired of fighting Lucifer, I’m tired of fighting Gabriel, I’m tired of fighting death. I’m tired of trying to figure out what’s the right thing to do. I’m tired of going two steps forward and three steps back. If I’m supposed to be Humanity’s great savior…I don’t know. I don’t know if I have it in me anymore.”

“You are the Chosen One, Alex. I’ve told you before, you are my redemption, my purpose here on Earth. I’m here to guide you, to protect you, to stand beside you. I haven’t been doing that lately, and I’m sorry.” Michael grasped the younger man’s shoulder. “I have faith in you. You _will_ be the one to defeat Lucifer.”

Faith. The same thing that Naomi had said. Still, it didn’t change the way he felt right now – overwhelmed, under siege, with the future of the world resting on him.

“I don’t know, Michael. Raphael told my mom that one of the prophecies said that I would stand alone against Lucifer. I don’t think I can do that.”

“You’ve never been alone, and you never shall be, I promise. There are too many who believe in you.” Michael smiled knowingly. “Besides, Raphael’s prophecies are notoriously inaccurate.”

As Gabriel walked up the hallway toward the infirmary, he waved away the guards on duty; they would not be needed while there was an archangel present.

 _Or, perhaps,_ said a little voice inside, _you simply don’t want spectators._

Likewise, he had waited for the doctor and his assistants to vacate the room. No witnesses, no bystanders, no one to interfere.

_Just a little quiet time between siblings, right?_

It had taken days to do bring himself to do this, to summon up the, what was it, courage? composure? daring? He knew that coming to see Raphael would unleash the torrent of emotions that he worked so hard to keep in check – the pain, the guilt, the sorrow.

Immediately after Michael had told him that their sister would live, he’d taken wing and left the Wildcat base, setting himself on a mission only he could carry out. He had been running away, yes, but running away from his own feelings – in the depths of his heart, his little sister had changed from angel to demon.

Yet still, his sister. Finally, he could put off the inevitable no longer. His task complete, he’d returned to Redstone and to the infirmary, to the room with its two human sentries, a ward in more than one sense of the word. 

Closing the door softly behind him, he turned to look.

He’d always thought of her as his “little sister,” even though she was technically older than him by – well, time really had very little meaning back then. She had been older, and wiser, but seeing her laying there, dwarfed by the bed and the shapeless smock they had dressed her in, she seemed like nothing but a child. The overhead lights cast deep shadows across her face, still misshapen from swelling and bruising. She’d been the most beautiful of them all, her grace and loveliness only accented by her magnificent mind, always searching, always learning. She’d had a stillness of heart, like a cool breeze over a hot desert, soothing and peaceful. 

Now, he bent over her sleeping form and took tally of her injuries. He’d heard that they’d been able to tuck her wings but the pain had been tremendous. Michael had spent hours healing her other wounds and the doctor hovered over her like a mother hen, but nothing could make the scars disappear any faster, make the hair grow back on her scorched scalp more quickly. An archangel could recover from many things, but the worse the injuries, the longer it took. 

Raphael’s recovery would still take days, perhaps even weeks more.

A kind of shudder passed through Gabriel, a horror at what his sister had withstood. Over his long life, he had been beaten, stabbed, electrocuted, shot and infected with the Darkness, but never had he been as close to death as the tiny figure that lay before him.

Yet still there was another sentiment that battled with the dreadfulness of her condition. His fingertips whispered over the bruising on her lovely cheek, down to the abrasion on the side of her jaw, and he stopped. It would be so simple, so easy to wrap his hand around her slender throat, to squeeze tight, then tighter, to feel the minute thrum of her pulse as it quickened, beating like the heart of hummingbird, then feel it stutter, falter…and stop.

She might not even rouse. The drugs they were pumping into her for the pain were potent, even for an archangel. 

She would simply…not…wake…up.

Raphael’s eyes fluttered, closed, then fluttered open again. It obviously took great effort, she grimaced as she squinted into the light. A faint moan escaped her lips as she shifted her head to see.

She gasped. “Gabriel.”

“Yes, sister.” He pulled his hand away and made to adjust the blanket that lay over her. “I’ve come to check on Michael’s handiwork. God’s Sword was made for the other end of this particular equation you know, the injuring not the curing.”

A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “He’s doing well as a healer.” Her voice was raw, barely above a whisper.

“Yes, well, I’ve been letting him practice on me of late.”

Her eyes drooped closed and he wasn’t sure if she’d fallen asleep again. Then they struggled open, the sterling grey glistening with unshed tears. “You saved me. After what I did, you saved me. I never thought it would be you.”

“Hush now.” He sat on the edge of the bed and fussed with the blanket once again, unsure of what to do with his hands. “I’ve lost one sister already, I can’t lose the other.”

Her face twisted up and the tears began to course down her cheeks unchecked. “I’m so very sorry, brother. I didn’t understand.”

“You were trying to put our family back together. I’m rather familiar with that particular psychosis.”

“I hurt you all so terribly, Gabriel. You and Michael and Alex. I was so very, very wrong.” She looked up at him with wide, pained eyes, sobs gently shaking her body. “Please, forgive me.”

Gabriel pulled his hands back and stood. He’d thought she might say something like this, he’d steeled himself for the moment, but still it felt like a hammer blow. Once again, he took in the bruises on her face, the too-pink skin in places where it had been burned away, the cuts and abrasions that still crisscrossed her hands and arms. Finally, he looked at her eyes, red with tears, filled with regret and sincerity he could not deny.

“I can’t,” he said quietly. “Not yet. The wound is too raw, the pain…” His voice caught in his throat as images of Charlotte flashed through his mind. “My heart needs to heal.”

Raphael silently nodded her understanding, not trusting her voice. She bit at her lip while sobs continued to shudder through her. Her eyes clenched tightly closed and she turned away.

Gabriel took a long, deep breath, consciously trying to settle the emotions that warred inside him. He leaned over and gently kissed her forehead. “Rest now, little one. Heal. I’ll see that Michael checks on you soon.”

She turned back and grasped at his fingers, gripping them tightly, and she pressed her lips against his knuckles. Her tears wet the back of his hand. “I love you, brother.”

Gabriel carefully pulled his hand away, rubbing at the dampness. The answer should have been automatic, but it wasn’t. Too much had happened, too much pain for too many people. Then, the corner of his mouth curled up, a sad look of resolve and perhaps a bit of relief. “I love you, too. We’re family. Nothing will ever change that.”

_Vega_

“I don’t like it.” Commander Tim Holt tossed the report onto the mahogany desk and slid the leather chair back, crossing one long leg over the other and propping his elbow on his knee. He rubbed his brow with two fingers while he stared at the offending paper.

“What don’t you like?” LTC Mack asked, stacking up another set of papers. They were in Holt’s smaller office, still as grand as the conference room, but not quite as large. Not _quite_. “It looked good to me.”

“Good, yeah, too good. We’re gearing up for what is supposed to be an all-out campaign and no one can seem to find the enemy. That’s not right.”

“Oh. Yeah. Valid point.”

“If I put this information in front of the Council tomorrow, they’ll have me step down everything we have in place. And if I _don’t_ present it to them, someone will leak it and they’ll think I’m hiding information to keep my job. It’s a lose-lose situation.”

Ethan set the papers down on his own, smaller, matching secretary’s desk and went over to the sideboard. He dropped a couple of ice cubes into two crystal tumblers and splashed scotch into them. He'd learned early on that Holt wasn’t much of a drinker, but he knew that sometimes simply taking a break was enough to help find a solution. Besides, it was late in the day, they’d been at it since dawn, and the meeting with the Council was looming the next morning. It was time for new tactics.

Holt bobbed his head at the glass as Ethan placed it on the desk. “Grab a seat. Maybe you and I can hash this out.”

While Ethan obliged, Holt sat back in his chair and took a long sip. “Nothing,” he mused. “Not a single eight-ball for 100 miles in any direction. It’s like they’re mocking me.”

“I’m sure it’s about you, sir.”

They both grinned and took another drink. The commander leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “This is good stuff.”

Inside, Ethan was thrilled. He’d picked this bottle specifically for the commander. “Balvenie 15-year, sir. I thought you’d like it.”

“Very nice. Where’d you get it?”

Well, that was a bit more of a problem. The lieutenant colonel felt his cheeks flush. “I…um…have my sources.”

“Could your sources find me a half-dozen eight-balls, just for show?”

Ethan burst out laughing, he couldn’t help it. “That didn’t go very well the last time, sir. The just-for-show thing. I’d rather not.”

Holt smiled, his eyes still closed. “Yeah, I heard about that little debacle during the Jubilee thing. Guess we should come up with another plan.”

“Probably.”

They sat like that for a few companionable minutes, slowly drinking the scotch. 

“Can I ask you a personal question?” the commander said after a while.

“Um, sure?”

Holt sat up again, placing his now-empty glass on the desk and leaning once again on his knee. “The Chosen One. You know him.”

“Alex?” Ethan gave an almost audible sigh of relief – this was not going to be one of “those” type of personal questions. Maybe. “I’ve known him for, like, forever.”

“You’re close?”

“He’s my best friend – no, more than that – he’s my brother. I’d do anything for him.”

Once again Holt leaned back into the leather chair, but now his blue eyes took on a deeper, more contemplative gaze. “Beyond your obvious personal affection for him, do you believe in him as the Chosen One? Do you think that he’s here to save humanity?”

“Am I buying the whole savior thing? I don’t know, I think so? He’s not like you or me, but then, to me he’s still just, you know, Alex. But, like, I’d follow him into the fires of Hell – not because he’s the Chosen One, but because I know what he is inside. He acts from his heart. I mean, sometimes he’s stupid, but he’s brave and he’s strong and he’s a truly good person.”

Holt nodded. “I’ve heard that he can cure eight-balls. _Cure_ them. Is that true?”

There was something behind that question that Ethan couldn’t see, but he knew was there. Something equally as personal. “Yes,” he said, with all the sincerity he could muster. “I don’t know if that’s his sole purpose here but it’s true.”

Holt ran a distracted finger around the rim of the crystal glass. He let out a long sigh. “I guess we’re going to have to find some way to convince the Council that what we’re doing is necessary, whether we have eight-balls in the vicinity or not.”

“Just because they’re not in the vicinity _today_ doesn’t mean that they won’t be _tomorrow_ ,” Ethan noted. 

“Valid point.” Holt looked up. “A very valid point. Do me a favor and see if New Haven and Helena are seeing the same kind of ‘non-activity’ in their areas. Maybe this is a precursor to whatever is about to go down.”

“I can do that.”

“Before the Council meeting tomorrow.”

“Of course.” Ethan stood and tilted his head toward the tumbler on the desk. “You want a refill before I go?”

Holt shook his head with a smile. “I don’t drink alone, and you have to leave.”

Ethan paused, then picked up both glasses to clean up. Like the question about curing the eight-balls, there was something else behind that statement, something he wasn’t quite able to see. He felt as if he’d been given the tiniest glimpse behind Commander Holt’s impressive personal armor, but not enough to really tell what the man was like. 

It made the commander all the more intriguing.

Gabriel stood outside the doors of the infirmary wing, shouldering his wings back into place. He’d been up on patrol…well, he’d _said_ he’d been up on patrol, but in reality, he’d taken to the air to try to once again try clear his head, to straighten out the tangle of emotions wrapped around his heart. Unfortunately, even the solitude of the skies wasn’t enough to help him right now.

Eventually the heavens had dimmed to the point that it was impossible to make-believe he was still scouting, even with angelic eyesight. It really did get amazingly dark here in the middle of the country. The moon had not yet risen and the stars were inefficient to the task; he’d been forced to return to the base or give up the fiction of his departure.

Now he needed to talk to Michael and he knew the most likely place to find him. He hadn’t seen his brother since his return, more than a day now, and it grated on him. For 25 years, they’d seen each other little more than once or twice a decade, usually on opposite sides of a battle. Yet now, now that they’d reconciled - Gabriel was not embarrassed to admit how much he valued his twin’s companionship, his advice, and most of all, his love.

A love that it looked as if he was sharing more and more. As he strode through the hallway, he could hear Michael’s resonant voice up ahead, his voice and another’s, softer, feminine. They spoke quietly, privately. If Gabriel had wanted to, he could have teased out the words of their conversation, but that would have been a breach of trust he was not willing to make. Instead, he walked up to the closed door and rapped loudly on the molding, making his presence known.

Michael answered the door himself. He was dressed in a casual shirt and pants, his swords missing, his long coat tossed over a nearby chair. The whole scene gave an unexpected impression of homey comfort. 

“Brother. Is something wrong? Raphael?”

Gabriel raised his hands. “Nothing wrong. I checked on her a few hours ago.

“You did?” Michael was surprised.

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed, then left it at that. “I’ve been back a day now, I thought we should talk.”

“Michael, is everything alright?” A dark head appeared at his shoulder and Laurel peeked out from behind him. She was in a loose cotton blouse and borrowed scrubs, her pregnancy quite evident. 

Michael edged the door open a bit, letting her see out. “Yes, fine.” Suddenly he seemed less comfortable. “Laurel, you’ve never met…I’m sorry, this is my brother, Gabriel.”

It felt as if a sudden thunderclap of silence had hit the hallway. Laurel stared wide-eyed at the other archangel, unmoving, for half a minute. Then she reached up and wrapped her hand around Michael’s upper arm. 

“Gabriel,” she finally said, her voice even, never taking her eyes off of the newcomer. “Your brother. Gabriel, architect of the Extermination War. Here.”

“Hello,” Gabriel said in an overly friendly tone. “Yes, that’s me. Black sheep of the family and all.”

Laurel peered up at Michael. “Could I talk to you? Alone?”

The look that Michael gave his brother was full of beseeching misery – apologizing for what had happened, afraid of what was to come. Gabriel almost started laughing. His experience with women, with _strong_ women, was a little deeper than his twin – he knew exactly what Michael was in for. “I’ll meet you later,” Gabriel offered. “When you’re finished… _talking_.” 

When Michael finally made his way outside a half-hour later, the waxing moon had risen over the remains of the rocket silos, casting a ghostly pallor over the concrete and steel buildings around them. The rust marks that ran down them reminded Gabriel of dried blood, the jagged edges of steel and concrete like so many sharks’ teeth against the night sky.

 _My you’re in a cheery mood, old boy,_ he chided himself, then turned to his brother. “Your woman seemed less than pleased to see me.”

“Your reputation proceeded you.”

Gabriel shrugged. 

“It’s my fault,” Michael continued. “I neglected to inform her of your part in all of this.”

“You told her then, about our plans, about Lucifer?”

“It wasn’t easy.” He sighed. “I’ve upset her entire world. She’s spent her life thinking she’s been in service to Father when the whole time Lucifer was preying upon her and her people. She’s angry now.” He turned back toward Gabriel. “What of you? Did you learn anything?”

“Yes. As we feared, Lucifer has spoken to them. Or perhaps his damnable Prophet, I don’t know. It doesn’t make any difference; the outcome is the same.”

“They follow him?”

“Some. Not all. Not all of them are mindless sheep looking for a warm place to lay down before the slaughter.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “How do you _really_ feel?” he deadpanned.

Gabriel scowled up at him. “I was hoping,” he let out a disgusted snort. “I was hoping that it would make a difference, but I fear not.”

“Patience, brother. We are playing the long game here.”

“I’m rather sick of this game. I know that you wanted to turn the tables on Lucifer, but I think it’s time to end the charade.”

“It’s not all a charade, especially with Alex.” 

“No, I agree, but we cannot continue this way. Yes, we can ‘do unto Big Brother as he would do unto us’, but if we are trying to make him see what he wants to see, what he wants to hear, I think we’ve done all we can. If he has any way of knowing, and I stress the ‘ _if_ ,’ he knows things are in chaos here, at least as far as we are concerned. By all accounts, you and I are barely speaking, Jenkins has pretty much written us off and Alex isn’t even a part of the picture and resents the hell out of it.”

“I think Lucifer does know. Noma was here. Alex talked to her.”

Gabriel’s jaw fell open. “Well there’s your trifecta. Or is it a hat trick, I get those confused.”

Michael tried to hide his amusement. “Alex also has another tattoo. One with three circles on it.”

“Warning us of our three visitors.”

“I think so.”

“And yet not telling us much more. Father and His extraordinarily vague portents.”

“Yes,” Michael said wryly. “And usually after the fact.”

Gabriel watched him for a moment. Michael seemed more relaxed and yet more focused, as if the varied strings of his life had been brought together, tuned like a piano. Everything about him seemed synchronized, in harmony. He’d even developed – dare he say it – a sense of humor.

It was obvious – Laurel was _good_ for Michael. She grounded him, made him better.

_Just as Charlotte had done…_

“None of this has changed your mind about Laurel then.”

“Not at all.” Michael shook his head. “In fact, the opposite. I think that she and Raphael and Noma are just as important to us as Lucifer thought they were to him. If Father felt it necessary to include them in Alex’s markings, then I think they are vital to our cause.”

Gabriel could not be as sure. He’d seen Noma switch sides far too many times. Raphael was still recovering, both physically and mentally. And Laurel…well, Laurel was a wildcard, no matter what Michael said. She’d spent far too long in Lucifer’s company.

Come to think of it, even Charlotte had made him question which side she was on. It seemed that women had a certain knack for making him wonder about their motives.

“You’ll excuse me if I hold on to my skepticism for a while longer, Michael. Until I can read those infernal tattoos, I’m going to give them as much credence as I give to Raphael’s prophecies.”

Michael raised a single brow and the corner of his mouth turned up. “Then what if I trust Laurel, and you remain cautiously optimistic?”

Gabriel was speechless. It was almost the same thing that Michael had said to him about Charlotte, except reversed. He was using Gabriel’s own argument against him.

And he was smiling.

_A damn sense of humor!_


	9. Chapter 9

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 17_

_Redstone Arsenal_

No one expected the attack, no one saw it coming. The eight-balls arrived at dusk, hundreds of them, swarming into the camp from out of nowhere. None of the outpost sentries had seen them, nor the drones nor the radar. They were suddenly, instantly, _there_.

They crawled up from the brush, climbed down from trees, creeped out of drainpipes, massing and swarming down on the base. They were armed with clubs and axes, hammers and pipe wrenches, nets and spikes and claws and teeth.

It was chaos.

The klaxon alarm sounded throughout the base almost immediately – it had been one of the first items on Jenkins’ “to do” list – and radios crackled with frenzied reports of battles erupting in numerous locations. Jenkins ran out of his office, one hand checking the gun on his hip, the other pulling on a flak vest. He scanned the windows as he rushed over to the large map that covered the far wall. “Mouse! Give me a sitrep, what have we got?”

The XO had a radio held to each ear; she’d learned to listen to simultaneous reports long ago. “About 50 eight-balls on the west perimeter, sir. Bravo Squad is engaged but it’s not going well. I’m sending reinforcements from the recon on that side. Four other areas with about the same: at the barracks, the motor pool and both guard houses.” She looked up at him seriously. “It’s a coordinated attack, sir, there’s no doubt about it.”

Alex and Naomi had settled into a comfortable routine, splitting up the various details of their assignment. After briefly scouting a street, they made a plan of the best pickings and saved those for the end, hitting the most decrepit of the homes first to get them off the list. There was rarely anything of value to be found in these places, most of the times both the structures and contents suffered from rot and decay, but Naomi held by her tenet of “no house left behind” and they searched each and every one. Naomi did most of the documentation, while Alex did more of the grunt work. It kept him busy physically and less likely to let his mind wander to just how frustrated and useless he actually felt.

He and Naomi no longer had the chance to return to the pristine house they had found the first day. Reluctantly, she had finally turned over the keys to the S&R follow-up crew and by now the place would have been stripped all its furniture, tableware and linens. Alex glanced down the street as he passed it each day. For a little while at least, it had been a place a refuge, a safe-house where he could leave the cares and worries of his life outside and just _be._ He would be forever grateful to his partner for that.

They were finishing up a modest-sized home that had seen better days yet still held a wealth of nicely preserved hand and power tools. The previous owner had been a bit of a collector, if not necessarily a handyman – it seemed that there was one of everything in the well-organized garage, some still in their original boxes. 

Naomi was outside, piling a few of the items that might be immediately useful at the end of the overgrown driveway while Alex continued to search through the garage. She had quickly given way to his expertise when it came to vehicles, to what was valuable and what was not.

Alex was head-first into the engine compartment of an old Chevy truck when he heard a strange crack from outside, then a faint susurrus that made the hair at the back of his neck prickle. “Naomi?” He stepped back from the truck and pulled the handgun from the holster on his hip – they never went anywhere unless they were well armed. “Everything alright out there?”

There was no response other than the clank of a heavy pipe hitting the old concrete drive. Alex’s heart started beating faster as he made his way to the side door, now swinging open. “Sergeant Lopez, respond!” he barked out, throwing his full rank into the command.

Still hearing nothing, he braved a glance outside. There, in the middle of the drive, Naomi lay sprawled out on the concrete, a large iron pipe not far from her outstretched hand. Above her stood a hissing eight-ball, brandishing an axe that glistened red with fresh blood.

Alex quickly holstered the pistol and pulled out the short-barrel Remington shotgun that hung from the back of his vest, aiming and firing all in one swift move. The eight-ball had no chance to react, it flew back into the overgrown bushes, its chest now a mass of bloody torn fabric and mangled flesh. Without a thought, Alex strode forward, putting another round into its head.

He turned rapidly at a sound just behind him and barely had time to raise the Remington to ward off an attack from another eight-ball, this one carrying a rusty machete. The barrel of the gun took the first blow, but the eight-ball was fast, too fast for Alex to avoid the second. He had just enough time to lean away from the strike but not enough to defend himself. The machete sliced a deep gash across his upper left arm and it fell limp against his body. 

The eight-ball stepped back, weaving back and forth, looking for another opportunity. Suddenly, it froze, and then _laughed_ , its rotten shark’s teeth stretching into a terrible grin, its stygian black eyes gleaming with delight. “Chosen One,” it wheezed. “ _Chosen One!”_

Alex wasn’t sure if he was more afraid of the bloody machete or the fact that the creature (he wasn’t actually sure if it was male or female underneath the rags and dirt) knew who he was. He could feel his tattoos start to glow, as if the spoken words alone were enough to summon his power. 

But there wasn’t time for that, not now. “Damn right!” he yelled. Dropping the shotgun, he drew the pistol and fired.

His aim was off, but nonetheless the bullet tore through the eight-ball’s elbow and the machete went flying. For a split second, they both stared at the blade as it scythed through the air. Then, as the eight-ball turned back, Alex double-tapped two more rounds into its heart.

“Naomi!” He dropped to the ground beside her, simultaneously scanning her body for injuries and trying to flex his own injured arm.

She was breathing, shallow breaths, but still breathing. That was good. There was blood, a lot of it and he couldn’t see where it was coming from. He reached for her face with his left hand - it was shaky and hurt to move, but he needed to keep the gun in his right. “Naomi, hey, can you hear me?”

Her eyes shot open. “Alex! Alex! They’re…they’re…I saw them…black, black eyes…” she panted. The fingers that had been wrapped around her middle grabbed at his shirt. “Don’t let them get me, Alex. Please don’t…don’t let them…”

“I won’t,” he promised. He could see the source of the blood now, a deep gash in her side, just below her flak vest. “I’ve got you, don’t worry.” He pulled her hand from his shirt and gently replaced it against her side. “I need you to press hard here – I know it hurts, just press down, just like that, that’s good. I need the radio.” He pulled the black box from her belt while he scanned the area. “Hang in there, we’re going to get you help.”

In the distance, he could hear them – the hissing murmurs, the oily, susurrating catcalls of the possessed.

The klaxon keened throughout the base, a banshee wail announcing the incoming tide of horror. Michael was moving as soon as he heard it, shoving the twin swords into their scabbards on his belt, tight until they were needed. He threw on his long leather coat and walked toward the hospital ward.

Laurel answered the door immediately. She was already dressed in baggy jeans, a faded tee and an old flannel shirt. Her face was taut with worry. “Michael, what’s going on?” 

He grasped her hand. “Eight-balls. Come with me.”

Together they hurried down the corridor toward the infirmary. Michael stopped in front of a pair of guards outside one of the rooms. “You are to remain here no matter what,” he addressed them. “Do you understand? Do not leave this room unprotected.”

The guards snapped off rapid “Yes, sirs” as he and Laurel passed through the door.

Inside, a tiny figure in oversize hospital scrubs sat on the edge of a cot, tucked into the far corner of the room. Her head was shaved, her body thin and covered with bruises, but her eyes were bright as she set down the book she had been reading. She rose, a bit unsteady, and walked toward them.

“Michael, what is? I heard the sirens.”

“Raphael. Sister.” He pulled Laurel a bit closer. “We are under attack. This is Laurel. I want you to stay together.”

Raphael’s grey eyes fell to his hand, still clasped in Laurel’s, then to the woman’s obvious pregnancy, and she questioned him silently.

“I will explain everything later,” he pleaded.

Then he turned to Laurel. “This is the sister I told you about. Please, take care of each other. I’m needed out there.”

She squeezed his hand and gave him a brave smile. “Go. We’ll be okay.”

“Michael, if it’s a battle,” Raphael stepped forward. “There will be injuries. I’m strong enough now, I can help.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know the situation, stay here for now.” He turned toward Laurel and brushed the side of her face with his finger. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

As difficult as it was to go, there was a certain lightness in his heart. He had watched them as he and Laurel had entered the room, watched them both. There had been no reaction, no sense of recognition in either of them, two strangers meeting for the first time.

_Raphael and Laurel did not know each other._

It was the last piece of the puzzle that he needed, the last question that had been answered. He had no doubts at all now. 

Outside, a squad of Wildcats had assumed defensive positions, guns ready. A group of at least two dozen eight-balls moved toward them, writhing and swarming like a colony of ants, wheezing out cries and obscenities in sibilant Lishepus. Only Michael knew what they said.

“ _The Chosen One, find him!”_

_“Find him! Our lord requires!”_

_“There is another! Another Chosen, find her!”_

Michael felt his heart pounding in his chest. _They knew, they knew about Laurel, about the child!_

A kind of coldness came over him, a certainty of purpose. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared and he breathed in deeply. He glanced briefly at the soldiers around him. “They must not gain entrance to this building. Four with me, the rest remain.” He drew his swords, spinning them into hand with the practiced ease of the dimachaerus.

God’s Sword had been playing this game for millennia, no one was better. He stepped forward with dangerous grace.

The first two eight-balls came at him with an axe, a machete. It was a matter of three quick slashes of the blade and they were both down. He’d hardly lost his step. 

Beside him, three men and a woman opened fire with short submachine guns. The sound rattled around the concrete buildings, mixing in with the shrieks and hisses of the eight-balls, a cacophony that only served to make Michael’s heart pump faster. The next eight-ball went down with its head nearly severed from its neck, the one after that lifted a chainsaw only to find that and the arm attached suddenly falling to the ground.

Michael was barely breathing hard.

Blood splashed against the archangel’s face as he cross-cut across another eight-ball’s neck, slicing the jugular on both sides. He blinked to clear his vision, then bent backward to avoid the rusty length of chain that suddenly whipped toward him from the opposite direction.

He wrapped his arm into the chain and yanked it forward, dragging a skinny eight-ball off-balance. Michael spun, swinging a long arc across both the eight-ball’s hamstrings. It fell to the ground and the archangel finished with a violent double thrust through its chest.

So it continued. The Wildcats beside him fought to match his intensity, soon running out of ammunition and continuing with swords and hands. Battle cries and warrior roars came from deep within, a primal, living sound. They would not be defeated.

Nor would Michael. The words repeated in his mind, a klaxon alarm that drove him on: “ _Another Chosen, find her!”_ He was fighting for Laurel now, fighting for his child, fighting for his _family_. 

There was no option but to prevail.

The fighting seemed to go on forever, a warped infinity of blood and sound and death, and then suddenly it was over. Michael stood in the center of the carnage, breathing heavily now, his twin swords dripping with blood. 

Around him, only one of the Wildcats to join him was still standing on her own, her guns long thrown away, her sword broken at the tip and slick with gore. Her fellow soldiers hurried from the shelter of the building to assist the other three, wounded but still alive. 

Michael scanned the piles of bodies, looking for movement. Any eight-ball that stirred, anything possessed that twitched or breathed or made a sound was dispatched with undeniable finality.

His face held only icy contempt.

When the siren finally stopped, there was only a moment of silence before the air was filled with a different kind of noise. The sound of racing motors and crunching tires announced the arrival of the first transports and the first casualties. Wounded Wildcats lay across seats, on makeshift pallets, or huddled into truck corners trying not move. Their agony was almost contagious. Those not hurt looked nearly as pained as they helped their fallen brethren into the infirmary. 

Gabriel landed near his brother, hitching his wings back. He, too, bore the stains of battle. “Michael,” he called. “Where is Alex? The eight-balls were looking for him."

“They were looking for both of them,” Michael said, scanning the wounded as they walked, or were carried, by. “Alex and Laurel. They wanted both of the Chosen.”

“This was a planned attack. I don’t know how they did it, how they got past our patrols, how they hid from our fly-overs, but they did.”

“Alex was on S&R duty. He was away from the base, away from us. He should have been safe.”

Gabriel grimaced. “There were attacks out there as well. This was well organized.” 

Michael felt his heart drop. “We’ve made a mistake, brother. We thought we were protecting Alex and it may have cost him his life.”

“I refuse to believe that.” Gabriel unfurled his wings again, snapping them open. “Stay here with Laurel and Raphael, I’m going to go find my son.”

He was just about to take to the sky when something made him stop. Both angels watched as a battered pick-up truck drove around the other vehicles, through the overgrown grass and skidded to a halt in front of the building. 

Alex was out of the bed of the truck as soon as it had stopped. He leaned over and picked up a woman’s still form, cradling her in his arms and rushing toward the building.

“Alex!” Gabriel beckoned. 

Whether he heard his father or not, they couldn’t tell. Alex roughly shouldered his way the gathering crowd and disappeared inside the building without a word. 

With a quick but silent look, the two brothers followed.

Even as the level of chaos outside had begun to taper off, inside the hospital building it had only begun. Injured soldiers had arrived almost immediately with everything from gunshot wounds to broken bones to bites and claw marks. The Wildcat medical staff had been trained from the very beginning for events of this very sort, but the sheer number of casualties was almost overwhelming, especially since they had not expected such intensive fighting here at the base. Nonetheless, triage was immediately established – the most serious cases were channeled into the half-dozen surgical suites that had been created, the less immediate were stabilized and prepped for their turn, and others were moved to an acute care station for first aid.

Then there were those unfortunate few who would not need aid. Their bodies were solemnly wrapped and taken to another building until they could be sent home.

Alex burst through the infirmary doors, pushing his way through the throng. “I need help!” he shouted. “She’s bleeding bad, she needs a doctor.”

A Wildcat corpsman, old enough to have been through this more than a few times, rushed up to him. “Sir, over here. Let’s get her on a bed so we can evaluate.” He motioned to the rows of cots that lined one side of the room, already nearly full.

“She needs help now!” Alex snarled. “She needs surgery! She’s bleeding to death!”

“Sir!” the corpsman said again, this time more sternly. “We need to evaluate her first.”

“Alex!” Both Michael and Gabriel called out as the hurried in after him.

The young man turned, his face a mask of fear and anger. He held the unconscious woman even closer. “Michael! Make them do something, she’s going to die!”

Michael regarded Alex, then the Wildcat corpsman and the rest of the crowded room. It was obvious that the medical facilities were already taxed over capacity. 

“Surgeries are full, sir,” the corpsman explained, aiming his words at the archangels, hoping that they at least would see reason. “We’ll do what we can to stabilize her until we have availability.”

Michael could see the dark stain that covered the side of the woman’s body. It contrasted starkly with the grey-white pallor he could see beneath her tawny skin. Neither boded well. “Let them do what they need to do, Alex. They know best.”

“I can’t let her die!” Alex’s eyes shone with tears. “Not another one, no more. _Please_.”

A soft voice spoke up from behind them. “May I look at her?” 

Everyone turned to see Raphael and Laurel standing a few feet away. Raphael held onto Laurel’s arm, whether for balance or reassurance it was difficult to say. 

“Please, I’d like to help.” She stepped forward. “It looks as if she’s lost quite a bit of blood. Hatchet, axe, something like that?”

Alex nodded mechanically. “Axe.”

The tiny archangel moved closer. With one delicate finger, she pushed away the bloody fabric, peering intently at the wound beneath.

When she looked up, her expression was grave. “He’s right, she can’t wait, she needs surgery immediately.”

“I’m sorry,” the corpsman said. It seemed as if he truly meant it. “We don’t have anyone left, not until they finish what they’re doing. We can’t take them away from the people they’re working on now.”

“Of course not.” She smiled up at him sweetly. “That would be cruel. But you have six surgeons and seven rooms that can be used as surgeries. I know, because I was in one of them until yesterday. It was being cleaned today.”

He nodded. “I don’t know if it’s ready. And I don’t know who – “

She cut him off, turning toward the other archangels. “Brothers, will you let me? Will your Commander Jenkins let me?”

Alex was confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Raphael is a healer, Alex.” Michael’s voice was low. He was thinking through all of the ramifications of this proposal, all the possible good and the possible bad. “She is perhaps the most skilled healer left on the planet. She could save your friend.”

Alex stared at him. The thought seemed almost impossible to consider. 

Raphael, the _murderer,_ save Naomi?

“Please, Alex,” she pleaded. “We’re running out of time. She’s already in shock, we don’t have much time. Please, please let me do this.”

Alex looked again at Michael, at Naomi still in his arms. They ached from holding her yet he was afraid to let go. He clasped her a little tighter, then nodded.

A change came over Raphael, she was now brusque, more decisive. “Michael, take her from Alex. Lay her on the bed in what was my room; we need to begin immediately.” 

Laurel stepped forward. “I can help if you need it. I’ve got a little experience sewing up farm hands, blood doesn’t bother me.”

Raphael gave her a quick appraisal. “You will act as nurse, then. Michael will watch over the anesthesia.”

Alex was torn between wanting to help and wanting to scream. He gritted his teeth in aggravation and wiped at his eyes. “Is there something…anything I can do?”

“Yes, there is.” The petite archangel’s expression changed back from stern to kind; she understood his frustration and his fear but she could also see the gash on his arm, the blood-soaked sleeve of his shirt. “You have your own injuries, have them attended to.” She lay gentle fingers on the side of his forehead, at the lump forming there, but he flinched away. “Go. I promise, I will do everything I can for her.”

With that, Laurel and Raphael retreated back into the medical ward following Michael. The door closed behind them. Alex watched after them, crestfallen.

“You care for this woman.”

“What?” Alex had almost forgotten that Gabriel was still there. “Uh, yeah. She’s my partner out there. My friend.”

A smirk tugged at the corners of the archangel’s mouth and he tried to keep it at bay. “I think perhaps more than that.” 

Alex felt his face go beet red. “What are you talking about? She’s a _friend_.”

“I don’t doubt that, but you’ve shared each other’s company more than once. You’ve worn her scent like cologne. I’m not a hypocrite, Alex. I’m the last one to judge you for taking advantage of the pleasures of the flesh.”

“Don’t start with me! I saw you in your aerie – a party every night. You made me sick. Just be glad I never said anything about it to my mom.”

Gabriel laughed bitterly. “I doubt you could have said anything that would have surprised Charlotte. She knew the depths I had fallen to, but she also knew that I was… _different_ then.”

“You keep saying that, that you’re ‘different’ now, that you were crazy before and now you’re…recovered. You expect me to believe that the same thing happened with Raphael?”

“I only hope that it did. I wouldn’t wish that madness on anyone.”

Alex shook his head. “It’s not an excuse, nothing excuses what you did, what she did. She killed my mom.”

“And if she saves the life of your friend, does that atone at all?”

For long seconds, Alex simply glared at his father, a seething fury of emotions churning just beneath the surface. Finally, he answered, speaking from behind clenched teeth. “Nothing changes what she did, nothing can bring my mom back.”

“No, you’re right.” Gabriel was quiet. “Nothing can bring her back. Nothing can change the past. We must work on changing the future.”

Alex let off a sigh of both exasperation and fatigue. “If you ask me, the future is a long way off. Right now, Naomi is fighting for her life, and if your sister doesn’t save her...” He threw up his hands and turned toward the triage area. “I’m not making any promises about what I will or won’t do.”

It was nearly four hours later that Alex found himself sitting in one of the folding chairs that had been set up near the entrance to the infirmary. He’d been seen and attended to by the medics – the arrival of Commander Jenkins may have expedited this a bit – but for the most part he had waited like the rest of the wounded Wildcats, and there were many.

Now his shirt was missing one sleeve and his arm was stitched and bandaged with what looked like strips from an old bedsheet of pale blue. He was assured that everything was sterile and he believed it – the Wildcats were nothing if not thorough. They were also frugal, and the few real medical supplies they had were used on the most serious cases. Twenty-two stitches were not considered serious.

The bump on his head hurt, possibly worse than his arm. He’d had to fend off yet another pair of eight-balls while he had waited for the truck to come and pick both he and Naomi up. Charged with adrenaline as he was, the fight had been short, but one of the possessed had gotten in a lucky hit with an oversize pipe wrench. Alex would have a blue and green reminder of it the next time that he looked in the mirror. 

Luckily, he had a hard head, or at least Claire had always told him so.

Now he sat, his eyes closed, gingerly at rubbing the lump, his mind wandering to a hundred different places. How had the eight-balls gotten into the camp? Was Noma involved? Why had they picked this time to attack? Was Naomi going to be okay?

And if she wasn’t, what was he going to do?

Gentle fingertips rested on his shoulder and he looked up to see Laurel. She was dressed in the typical green surgical scrubs, perhaps a bit oversize to fit her expanding middle, with a matching cap covering her dark hair. 

Most importantly, she was smiling. “Your friend’s going to be fine.”

He almost wilted with relief. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

“I think I know.” She bent backwards, rubbing at the small of her back and nodding toward the chair next to him. “Could I sit down?”

“Oh, yeah.” He pulled the chair out a little. “I’m sorry, you must be tired.”

She smiled again as she sat. “A little bit, but actually it was really nice to do something…helpful.” She stuck out her hand. “We haven’t really been introduced. I’m Laurel Phillips.”

“Alex. Alex Lannon.” He shook her hand briefly. “I was there when you came in. Michael’s told me a little bit about you.”

She laughed, her hands open in front of her stomach. “Well, some things are pretty obvious.”

He shrugged but had to smile.

“Michael’s told me about you, too. You know, he cares for you very much. I hope this,” she rubbed at her middle, “unexpected situation hasn’t caused too many problems for you.”

“It’s not your fault,” he replied automatically, the proper polite answer. Then he thought about it – it _wasn’t_ her fault. It wasn’t Michael’s fault either, it just _was_. Laurel’s arrival and her pregnancy were just two more things that had happened, the chain of events that were stringing together to lead to the end. 

“I think,” he started, trying to put his thoughts together, “I think Michael could be a really good father. He’s been really good to me.”

Laurel dropped her gaze. She didn’t want him to see the tears that had instantly sprung to her eyes. Her hand slipped to his and squeezed it. “Thank you. That means a lot.” She sniffed. “I’m sorry, you want to know about your friend, not me.”

“Naomi,” Alex offered.

“Yes, Naomi. Like I said, she’s going to be just fine. Raphael – well, I only just met her, Michael brought me to her room when the fighting started so I was just getting to know her. She’s…remarkable.”

Alex had to bite down the retort that threatened to burst out.

Again, Laurel squeezed his hand. “I know what she did,” she said solemnly. “Raphael told me from the very start. I can tell you that she’s sorry, but that won’t help you, won’t make things better for you. I know that and she knows that. That’s not what matters. 

“What does matter is that she’s a brilliant surgeon, absolutely brilliant. She did incredible work. I’m not a doctor, and our old doc wasn’t anywhere near her caliber, but still…I’ve never seen anything like what she was doing. At one point, one of the other surgeons came in to watch for a little while between patients and he was just amazed. Raphael was actually repairing blood vessels with the tiniest of stitches, and every one of them perfect. She saved your friend’s spleen. I guess, normally a doctor would have just removed it with that kind of damage, but that opens a person up to all sorts of infections. She _saved_ it. And she did some kind of nerve block – it was incredible, the pain just disappeared. Naomi will need bedrest for a couple of days, but she’s going to fully recover, and probably do that faster than if anyone else had treated her. It’s kind of a miracle.”

Alex slouched in his chair, the tension now completely drained out of him. The energy, too. He hadn’t realized just how much he had been holding inside, the worry, the guilt. Naomi was going to be alright! One name, one person at least that he could keep from the roster of those he had lost. “Can I see her?”

“They moved her to recovery, she’s sleeping. Let her rest. Tomorrow, I think.” Laurel stood, bending and twisting again, a tiny grimace marring her sweet expression. “I’ve got another surgery to assist on.” She grinned. “Not what I thought I was going to do this week, but we all do what we can to help, right? And I’m learning so much.” Her hand rested on his good shoulder. “You get some sleep, too, okay? You need to recover. We’ll take care of Naomi, don’t worry.”

He looked up at her. She wasn’t stunningly beautiful like Becca had been, but she radiated caring and competence and it made her almost glow. No wonder Michael had fallen for her.

“I will,” he agreed, and watched her go back to the surgical area.

He would rest, but had had something to do first. When Laurel had put her hand on his shoulder, the one not bandaged, it had hurt. Not badly, but enough to remind him that it was bruised. 

He remembered bouncing off of the side of the pickup as they had sped back into the base. The action had been unexpected, but the driver had needed to swerve around an obstacle. Alex had been holding Naomi and hadn’t been able to brace himself; hence the bruise.

Looking out the tailgate, he’d expected to see a body or some other obstacle laying there in the middle of the road, but instead had seen a manhole cover partially removed, cantilevered over the hole. The pickup would have surely lost an axle if it had hit it at speed.

Alex stood. His whole body hurt, hurt _a lot_ , but his thoughts were still on the manhole cover. He had the feeling that it was more than a booby trap, much more.

He needed to see Jenkins.

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 18_

_Vega_

LTC Ethan Mack was in full dress uniform – again. He’d developed a love/hate relationship with the uniform – if he was wearing it, it was either for a high-level meeting, usually with the full Council or some other dignitary, or a funeral. Both were, generally speaking, less-than-desirable situations that he would have rather missed. He wasn’t a politician, and sending off comrades was never easy. 

That said…well, _damn_ , he did look fine. 

He caught a brief reflection of himself in the polished brass of the door to the conference room and used his free hand to straighten his tie. The other hand held a stack of presentations that he and Commander Holt had put together over the last couple days. 

Today was a Council meeting. Unfortunately.

Or it was supposed to be. Ethan knew that he was running a minute or so late, but that didn’t explain why, when he opened the door, the room was completely empty except for Commander Holt.

“My apologies, sir,” the lieutenant colonel started. “Have I missed everything?”

Holt was seated at the head of the big table, his chair swiveled so that he could look out the picture windows that took up one entire wall. He turned back, settled deep into the plush leather, his expression thoughtful. “No, no. I cancelled the meeting. We’ve got more important things to worry about.”

Ethan was concerned. Cancelling a Council meeting was basically unheard of. Holt might not have been from Vega, but nonetheless he was skating on very thin ice.

“Was that wise, sir? I mean, cancelling the meeting. The councilors, they can get a little touchy.”

Holt gave him a lazy grin. “It’s fine. Actually, they were all here early and we had about a two-minute meeting. Everything was done by the rules and their precious protocol followed, they even called roll. You were absent, by the way.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“It doesn’t matter. I tabled everything until we can deal with the information that I received last night.”

“Last night? Does this have to do with the attack at Redstone?”

“Yes. Sit down.” He gave the LTC a wry look. “Unless you don’t want to wrinkle your pretty uniform.”

Ethan felt his face start to burn and he tried to hold back an embarrassed smile. “I think I’ll be fine.” He set the pile of folders to one side, pulled out a notepad and took the chair next to the commander. “What did you find out?”

Holt leaned forward onto the table, now much more serious. “There was a large scale coordinated attack on the Arsenal yesterday. Preliminary numbers are at about 200 eight-balls, but that’s just the bodies they collected. More of them could have escaped. The question was how they got it. The base is well secured from land and air – they have two archangels to fly surveillance as well as drones. They thought they were protected.”

“And yet the eight-balls got in.”

“Yes, and in numbers. Only one other way to do it.”

Ethan pursed his lips. “Underground.”

“Exactly. It’s not uncommon to think three-dimensionally but to only think ‘up.’ Jenkins did it, we did it. The eight-balls thought ‘down.’”

“Lucifer does know all about down.”

Holt huffed out a little laugh. “Valid point. That said, I think we might know why we haven’t been able to see the enemy for the last couple weeks.”

“They’re underground.”

“Very possibly so.”

“We’re kind of…”

“Screwed?” Holt finished for him. 

“No. More like out of our depth. Literally.” Ethan bobbed his head back and forth. “That’s an engineering issue more than a military one.”

“You’re my answer man, got any answers?”

Ethan thought about it for a few moments. One name kept coming to mind. He pushed it aside and searched for someone, _anyone_ else. It kept coming back. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Yes, sir. I think I have someone that might be able to help. Unfortunately.”

Four hours later, both the commander and his Vega liaison had doffed both jackets and ties. Sleeves rolled up, they were discussing a particular point on a list when there was a tentative knock at the conference room door.

“Yes,” the commander called without looking up.

‘Hello?” A head appeared with receding grey hair and an anxious look. “Am I in the right place?”

“Mr. Whele?” Holt finally lifted his gaze. “Come in please.”

David Whele entered, his arms full of long, rolled papers. Immediately he stopped, his eyes wide as he looked around the room. “I haven’t been in here in years. I’m glad to see they haven’t torn it apart yet. Gorgeous place.”

Ethan bristled. “You’re here as a consultant, Mr. Whele, not as a member of Council.”

“Oh, of course, of course!” He beamed a guileless smile them. “No, I just mean I want them to re-use the beautiful wood, the furnishings, you know, properly. In the beginning of the rebuilding, well, people were a little eager to do away with the nicer things.” He shook his head. “I understand, I was part of the problem after all, but I do hate waste.”

It was all a bit much and Ethan rolled his eyes. “Okay. Why don’t you show us what you have?”

“Yes, well. If I may use the table.” He plopped the rolls down and started to pick them up one by one, checking a title block, moving to the next. “I’ll just be a moment.”

The commander stood, stretching his long torso. They’d been hunched over the table for a while now. “Mack, why don’t we get something to drink. Mr. Whele, would you like a refreshment?”

“Oh, no, thank you. Can’t risk getting these wet.” He exchanged yet another roll in his quest, unrolling it and happily finding what he was looking for.

The two soldiers walked across the room toward the wet bar. Another one of the perks that had been _de rigueur_ for the upper V’s, it was appreciated at times like this.

The commander poured a sparkling water for both of them and splashed a little tart cherry juice into them. Mack had introduced him to the drink when he’d arrived and it had become one of his favorites – he was still amazed at the variety of produce the agri-towers were able to grow.

He took the time to get a better look at their new “consultant.” David Whele was dressed in jeans, a faded blue polo shirt with a worn sports jacket over the top. He’d been told that Whele had previously been one of the V-6’s, one of the movers-and-shakers in the Vega hierarchy. He’d also been told that he was one of the architects of the civil war.

Now he looked little more than an aging civil engineer.

“You don’t like this guy,” the commander said, sipping the drink.

Ethan frowned. “No, sir, no I don’t. Beyond everything else, he did my friend wrong.”

“Alex?”

“Yes, sir.”

Holt watched as the newcomer spread more papers across the conference table. He had it almost completely covered now. “He seems kind of…doddering.”

“Don’t believe it. He’s…well, they say that he’s changed, but I don’t know. People don’t change that much and he was one of the most devious people that I ever met.”

The commander watched the scene for a bit longer. Whele talked to himself almost constantly, a happy little chatter, pointing out various places on the plots, turning one this way, another one that so that they lined up just right. “Gentlemen,” he announced. “I think I have this worked out.”

They walked back to the table, leaving their drinks behind. 

The scene before them was really quite amazing. With the aid of at least four different departments, David had managed to piece together the entire underground system of tubes, tunnels, access shafts, subways and passageways the ran beneath the city and beyond. Different sections were carefully highlighted, others areas marked with delicate cross-hatching in black and red.

“I have to say, Mr. Whele,” the commander started, “I’m impressed that you put this together so quickly.”

“Back in the day, I knew people.” David shrugged. “Well, I guess you could say that I had my fingers in quite a few pies.”

Ethan pursed his lips and had to look away to avoid blurting out words like “extortion” and “blackmail.” He desperately wished he could have come up with anyone else.

“The point is,” David continued, “I knew where to go to get the information. I’m good with information.”

“Well this seems quite thorough, I appreciate it. Tell me,” Holt pointed to one highlighted part. “What does that mean?”

“That’s a contact point. It connects the underground with a building or with street level admittance like a manhole.”

The commander nodded. There were quite a few of those. Hundreds. “And the shaded-out areas?” He pointed to the cross-hatching.

“Oh.” David’s face fell again. “I blew those up.”

“You _what_?”

Ethan rolled his eyes once more. _Anyone_ else.

“I was in a bad place, mentally,” the former Consul explained. “I thought that if I could divide the city, it would help it heal. It didn’t make sense, I realize that now, but at the time…”

“You did it…” Holt was dumbfounded. “You did it for Vega. You started a civil war to help the city.”

“Like I said, at the time it made sense. I’m trying to make up for it, for everything I’ve done.” David bowed his head, then looked up again. “But if what the lieutenant colonel is saying is true, then it might just be to your advantage. If the eight-balls are coming in from below, then the collapses will block off some of the points of entry. That will limit their access and you can reinforce more porous areas.” He pointed to a half dozen spots on the maps.

Holt looked between the two Vega men. Whele was almost giddy with excitement now. He had a desperate need to be wanted, to do something, it was obvious in his plaintive eyes. 

Yet he didn’t seem to want to insinuate himself back into control. The commander had watched and listened carefully – everything was “you” and “your,” not “we” or “I.” The older man was taking a backseat, giving information freely, and he seemed sincere. Maybe he _was_ changed.

Mack gave him a non-committal shrug; it had been his idea to bring the former V-6 in as consultant in the first place, no matter what his personal feelings. That said, the LTC wasn’t about to vouch for him. Holt thought that his call had been a good one; they had the information that they needed, or so it seemed.

Unless Whele was pulling off the biggest con of all time.

“Alright then.” The commander slapped one hand in the center of the closest plot. “Mr. Whele, you’re going to give me what you think are primary and secondary points of ingress. We’re going to take 100% of the Wildcat personnel and put them underground. I don’t want to leave everything else unattended, but my gut tells me this is what we’re going to be facing, and soon.”

David nodded, his eyes already starting to scan the expanse of paper on the table. “I’ll have my best guess answer for you in two hours,” he said, “maybe less. I can’t promise you that it will be completely accurate, I’m not an eight-ball after all, I don’t think like they do. Thank heavens.”

“I appreciate that.” Holt’s eyes narrowed, watching the older man. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“The maps, putting this all together - did you go to school for this? Was this your degree?”

“No.” The smile that crossed the older man’s face was wistful. “Self-taught, actually. Something I’ve always loved. The order, the patterns, the way one element integrates with another. Maybe if I had…gotten that degree, I mean, things would have been…you know, different.”

Holt nodded. It felt like the answer he was looking for, the key to the enigma that was David Whele. “Thank you again for your help.”

With any luck, things _were_ going to be different.

_Redstone Arsenal_

Commander Malcolm Jenkins stood in front of the assembled group, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. This was quite possibly the last time he would be making a speech like this, he wanted to do it right.

“First off, I’d like to thank you all. I know that most of you consider this your duty – the majority of you here are career soldiers.” His gaze ran across the rows of his officers, perhaps two dozen in all, and he saw their rapt attention. “That doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate what you do and how you do it. It has been my honor to serve with each and every one of you, and I want you to carry that message to the people under your command. I’ve been in the service the better part of my life, since I was sixteen years old, and I can honestly say that this is the best finest group of soldiers I have ever had the privilege to be a part of.”

There was a quiet rumble of agreement throughout the assembly. They all knew what this kind of speech meant. No one heaped this kind of praise unless they thought it was their last chance to do it.

Jenkins took a deep breath. “The attack yesterday made it clear that we’ve lost our focus. We’ve been so concerned about the upcoming battle that we lost sight of the enemy. That has to change. I’ve spoken with the archangels, with Michael and Gabriel,” he nodded his head toward the pair standing at the back of the room, "and we come to a decision.

“We deploy for Mallory in two days’ time.”


	10. Chapter 10

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 18 continued_

_Redstone Arsenal_

If the base had been busy before, now it was doubly so. With less than 48 hours before they were scheduled to deploy, it seemed that there was at least a week’s worth of details to attend to. 

Jenkins’ first move was to requisition a driver and one of the smaller transports and make it into his mobile office. Mouse filled the back seat with boxes of files and folders and as they jounced along over the broken macadam crisscrossing the base, she would call off the next item on one of her never-ending lists.

Personnel were, of course, primary. The eight-ball strike had been costly, not only in precious munitions, but in people. There had been 126 soldiers wounded, with 27 still in the infirmary. 

Worst of all, they had lost 16 lives in the attack. Sixteen bodies currently on their way back to New Haven, back to their grieving families. Every time Jenkins thought about it, his gut twisted and he felt nauseous. 

Somehow, someway he knew he should have foreseen it _._ These were his people and he owed it to them. He’d failed them, and he couldn’t afford to do it again.

The transport would return tomorrow with additional ammunition, additional medical supplies and another battalion, another group of eager men and women ready to put their lives on the line for their commander. 

It didn’t make it any easier.

“Commander Jenkins.” Mouse’s voice broke him out of his reverie as the transport swerved to avoid a looming pothole.

“Yes?”

“It’s almost 1400, sir. You need to eat something.”

He turned about in his seat and was just about to berate her about time management when he caught the look in her eye. It wouldn’t do any good; she would pull her gun on the poor driver to make him head to the mess if it came down to it. Hell, she’d pull her gun on her commander for that matter if she really thought he needed a break.

Jenkins pursed his lips. “A very _short_ lunch, then I want to see those drones launched.”

Mouse grinned. She had known when she had broached the subject that she was going to get her way. “Yes, sir. I’ll radio ahead and have the pilots ready.”

 _Henpecked by my XO,_ Jenkins thought to himself. _I wonder if I was that bad with Charlotte._

Then he smiled, shaking his head ruefully.

Of course he had been. It was how he had shown his love.

If Alex had been bored and frustrated before, he didn’t have time for it now. He’d been sitting in the very last row of the command staff meeting when Jenkins had announced the timeline for the attack on Mallory and his life had been a whirlwind ever since. Even before he’d left the meeting room, Mouse had pulled him to the side and told him that he was to be fitted with full tactical gear, everything from uniform to helmet to boots. He’d look exactly like every other Wildcat – that was part of the plan, to hide him in plain sight, one of thousands on the ground around the little town. Since he still wasn’t sure just what he was going to _do_ when he got to Mallory, he wasn’t quite sure what to think about this new plan. 

Once they’d kitted him out in the armory, he had the chance to look in the mirror, to see himself in the matching BDU’s, the flak vest, the helmet. Since he had arrived, he’d been forced to wear pieces of the Wildcat uniform in addition to his own clothes – he didn’t have that many shirts and pants – but he’d always had on at least one piece of his blue Archangel Corps uniform, a way to stay apart.

For the first time, he saw himself in the full Wildcat officer’s uniform – olive drab cargo pants and collared shirt, the ebony needlework on his shoulder, looking like part of the group. Part of his mother’s group – _his mother’s army_. He’d been feeling so lost, adrift for so long, but now he had something solid, something tangible that he could see and feel. His fingers ran over the satiny stitching of the black cat logo. His mom had had something to do with it, with the design, he was sure of it. When they’d been talking about it in the restaurant, there had been something in her eyes, a little hint of pride she hadn’t been able to mask. He wished he’d taken the time to ask her about it.

He perched on the edge of his cot now, having stashed the rest of the gear, the helmet, the flak jacket and other items, underneath. For a few seconds, he just sat there, mindlessly rubbing the tiny bars on his collar. They’d given him the rank of Captain, the same rank he held in Vega. It helped a little – people at least would know where he stood as far as command was concerned without shoving him into a position that he didn’t know enough about. 

His mother’s words came back to him. _“They sense that you’re a leader, that you’re important. They respect you, they want to follow you.”_

He wasn’t so sure about that. Right now, he didn’t want to be anything more than one of the corps, one of the Wildcats, just another soldier doing his duty. He didn’t want to lead people into battle. He didn’t want them to follow him to their deaths. He didn’t want to be important, to have responsibility. He just wanted to be…done.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. _God, Mom, I miss you._

“Well, look at you all spiffy and shit.” Naomi grinned up from the cot as Alex grabbed a folding chair and set it up next to her. She tried to sit up, grimaced and fell back against the pillow.

“Yeah, well, I thought I’d show you people what a real soldier looks like.” Alex’s smirk fell away as he smoothed the hair off her face. “How’re you doing?”

“Better than that guy.” She hitched a thumb at her neighbor whose heavily wrapped leg was elevated a foot in the air by wires and pulleys. “He has to piss in a jar, I can at least get up and use a toilet like a human being.”

“Fuck off, Lopez,” came a muffled grunt from the next bed. 

“What – seriously?” Alex asked. “You’re walking around?

“I’m not walking _around_ ,” she corrected. “I’m walking to the _bathroom_. But yeah, I can walk. It hurts like a bitch, and I have to take the damn IV with me, but I can walk.”

Alex let out a huff of amazement. “I can’t believe it. I thought…I thought you might die.”

She shrugged. “What can I say, thank you. You saved my life and you then got me one kick-ass doctor.” She glanced up and down the rows of cots. There were nearly two-dozen beds filled with a variety of patients, some worse than others. A low murmur filled the space, a combination of moans and cries, the audible vestiges of pain. “I’m serious. Our docs are great and all, but they told me what happened – there wasn’t anybody left. They said you got the archangels to work on me.”

“Yeah.” His brow creased; he still wasn’t sure how he felt about the whole thing. Then he brightened. “Gotta take care of my partner, right?”

“Got that right.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Captain Jack came by to check on me.”

“That was…unexpected.”

“He’s an old teddy bear, don’t let him fool you. Anyway, he told we that we’re rolling out.”

“Jenkins made the announcement. I think he doesn’t want to chance another attack while we’re here.”

“Makes sense.” There was a long pause. “I need to get out of here,” she said finally. “I’m going to be part of it.”

“No.” Alex put his hand on her arm. “No, you need to get better.”

“No,” she countered, sitting up awkwardly. “I need to kill those sonsabitches.” She grabbed at his hand. “You’ve got an in, with Jenkins or Mouse or the archangels, I don’t care who. Just get me released, get me down there. I want to fight.”

He shook his head. “You’re not ready, you’re not going to _be_ ready.”

“Stop trying to protect me, Alex, I know what’s going down.” She regarded at him seriously, dropping her voice to just above a whisper and pulling him close. “I’m not stupid, I know this is endgame. I’m not going to sit up here in a cot doing nothing, I can’t do that.”

“I can’t…it’s not…” he stumbled for words. He wasn’t going to try to correct her, she knew the truth. He simply didn’t know anything that could be done. “I don’t know what I can do. Hell, I still don’t know what _I’m_ going to be doing down there.”

“We’re fighting for our existence, Lannon, I’m going to be part of it. Find me a way.” There was no doubting the determination in her tone. She would do this with or without his help.

“I’m supposed to meet with Michael and Jenkins, I can…I can see…” He trailed off, wincing. It wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear.

“Excuse me, hello.” Raphael’s cultured accent broke into the uncomfortable silence. “I thought I’d check in on my patient, if that’s alright.”

Alex popped up out of the chair as if it were suddenly scorching hot. “Oh, yeah, sure.” He stumbled back awkwardly. “Of course. I’ve got to get to a meeting.” He flashed a quick, uncomfortable smile at Naomi but dropped his head to avoid the archangel.

“Alex,” Raphael called, “just a moment.” 

Alex ground his teeth. He wanted nothing more than to be gone. “What?”

She peered up at him, reaching out with one delicate hand. “Your forehead, may I?”

“I bumped it, so what?”

“Yes, I know. May I look at it?”

He rolled his eyes but bent down slightly. Her fingers smoothed over his skin, pushing back his hair, pressing ever so slightly. It didn’t hurt, he had to at least give her that. 

She smiled up at him sweetly. “I’m sure you’re scheduled to go back to have the stitches in your arm looked at. I can take care of that right now if you like, too, save you the trip.”

Shaking his head, he began to roll up the sleeve of his shirt, finally pulling it up forcibly onto his shoulder. The line of sutures stood out against his flesh like a miniature railway. 

Raphael’s head tilted a bit to the side as she scrutinized his arm. She did not touch the actual wound, but her fingers gently palpated the area around it. “Well, yes, that seems to be coming along quite nicely,” she finally said. “No infection, that’s good.” 

“I’ve always been a fast healer.” Alex rolled his sleeve down. There was something weird about what the archangel had said or maybe about the way she had said it. Nonetheless, it was welcome news. He glanced down at Naomi and she gave him a meaningful look. “Thanks,” he said awkwardly. “And thanks for taking care of my friend. I…I appreciate it.”

Raphael tipped her head toward him with solemn grace. “Thank you for letting me help.”

It had been somewhere around three a.m. that Michael had found Laurel asleep in one of the metal chairs scattered along the infirmary hallway. He’d sent her out of the surgical suite a half-hour before to find something to eat and to get off her feet for a few minutes while Raphael finished up yet another procedure. From the way Laurel had leaned her head against the wall and held her surgical cap in one loose hand across her lap, she’d had the energy to do one but not the other.

He had been astonished at how quickly she’d adapted, how fast she had learned to anticipate Raphael’s needs during surgery. Michael had seen the woman handle a shovel, a shotgun, and an angry crowd back in Mallory; now he’d seen her assist on more than one incredibly delicate operation, even though she had to be near exhaustion. She never failed to amaze him.

She was human, however, and more than a little pregnant. He had picked her up gently and carried her to her own room – she’d never even stirred.

He had waited until noon to knock on her door. He could hear her shuffling steps and she answered it still in the hospital scrubs he had put her to bed in, stifling a yawn as she motioned him inside.

“Did I wake you?” he said, setting a plate on the table. 

She shook her head, ruffled her bed-mussed hair and rubbed at her face. It reminded him charmingly of a small animal, a rabbit or otter. “Sorry,” she said through another yawn. “I just woke up a couple minutes ago. Kind of.”

“I’ve brought you some food, I thought you might be hungry.”

“Oh, you’re a godsend.” She picked up the sandwich, then looked back at him and grinned. “You are, in fact, a God-send, aren’t you?”

“Not everyone would agree with that, I fear.”

She leaned up and kissed him. “Then they don’t know what they’re talking about.” She bit into the sandwich and sighed in appreciation.

He watched her for a few minutes as she ate, watched her enjoy the simple pleasures of bread and meat. Laurel was so very different from the other women he had spent time with throughout the ages – priestesses and politicians, sages and princesses, warriors and queens. 

It was her simplicity that made her attractive, her openness that appealed to him. And yet she had something that none of those other women had, a depth of soul that had captured his heart. There had been other women that he had cared for, even loved, but none that had completely captivated him like this unassuming, intriguing, fascinating woman.

He couldn’t wait to spend every single day with her. With her and their child.

The thought brought him back to reality. “When you’re finished, there are things we need to discuss.”

She waved him off. “Tell me now,” she said, covering her mouth to avoid being rude. “First, how did things turn out? I’m sorry I fell asleep; I just meant to take a little nap and then go back and help.”

Now it was his turn to dismiss her. “You did more than enough, Raphael was extremely grateful. She said that you will be her nurse from now on.”

Laurel’s cheeks flushed at the compliment. “Your sister is amazing. Naomi, those other soldiers, they were lucky to have her. I just followed her instructions.”

“They were lucky to have you, too.”

She finished the sandwich and pushed the plate away. “Now tell me the bad news.”

“There was a total of 142 casualties, sixteen of them fatal. It is obvious that the assaults were coordinated and well planned.” He licked his lips and took a deep breath. “The eight-balls were after you and Alex.”

“Oh, God.” She paled. “You’re saying those people died because of me?”

“No. I’m saying they died because the base was attacked and we did not expect it. Jenkins and I have discussed it – we cannot wait any longer, it puts both of you and Alex in jeopardy. He has made the decision to move on Mallory.”

“When?’

“Two days.”

She sat down in a chair, leaned back and blew out a long breath. “It’s real then.”

“Yes.”

“Somehow, in the back of my mind, I kept thinking that it wouldn’t happen, that things would resolve somehow, that we wouldn’t have to, you know…” she trailed off.

“Attack your home.”

Her eyes dropped to her hands folded in her lap, almost as if in prayer. “Yeah. Attack my home. My people.”

He crouched down in front of her and took her hands into his. “I’m sorry, Laurel. If there were any other way, I would find it. There isn’t.”

“I know you would.” Her hand cupped the side of his face. “Not just for me, but for all of Mallory. That’s why I love you.”

Then she took a deep breath and nodded briskly. “Okay. If that’s the way it’s going to be, that’s the way it’s going to be. I told you before, if you’re taking Lucifer down, I want in. Tell me what I’m going to be doing.”

He looked up at her, at the resolute thrust of her jaw, at the bold flash in her eyes, and he thought that he might love her more than ever.

Gabriel waved away the guards and rapped his knuckles on the door to Raphael’s room. Knocking was an obtrusive, human thing, but then again, so were doors. It felt odd to do to see his sister.

She answered almost immediately, offering a wide smile when she saw her visitor. “Brother, please enter. Thank you for coming.” Her hand swept the small room. “I have one chair – you are welcome to it.”

Gabriel took the chair, spinning it around so that he could sit on it backwards. He’d found that his sword was less likely to get tangled this way, and the back of the chair provided a convenient place for him to lean his arms. He had a feeling he was going to want something to do with his hands.

Raphael sat on one side of the cot. The rest of it was covered with pieces and strips of cloth, a scissors, needles and thread. It took a moment but Gabriel finally recognized the remnants of her cloak. He jerked his chin toward it. “Sutures weren’t enough, you’ve taken on a sewing project?”

Her hand ran over the material. “I loved this old cloak. I’m hoping that I can salvage something out of it. Besides,” she gestured to the surgical scrubs she still wore, “I can’t wear these for the rest of my life.”

He looked at her, saw the dark smudges that still circled her eyes, the too-deep hollows of her cheeks, the patches of skin on her head and hands that were just beginning to change from scar-pink to her regular mocha brown. “You should still be a patient yourself, not a doctor.”

“I don’t have a choice. I have to do anything I can, I have to –”

“Atone?” He cut her off, his voice flat. “Is that what you are trying to do?”

“Isn’t that what _you’re_ trying to do? Brother, you should understand more than anyone.”

He leaned his elbows on the back of the chair and pressed his cheek into his clasped hands, his face turned away.

The silence went on for an uncomfortable time. When Raphael spoke, her voice was thick with emotion. “You loved her very much, didn’t you? Charlotte.”

“She was everything.” He breathed in deeply, trying to control the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him once more. “She made me whole. She made me _better._ She was the reason that _I_ must atone. To be worthy of her. And Alex.”

Again there was silence.

“Father left us and the world was insane.” Raphael said quietly, wrapping her arms around middle as if to protect herself from the memory. “No logic, no reason, no sense. You and Michael, warring against each other. I couldn’t take it – my brothers, my dearest brothers trying to kill each other, and all over a simple human child. And then the lower angels, like so many animals, rutting in the wild, scrabbling for the last bits of food, maiming and killing for nothing but sport – it made me sick. I couldn’t take it, I ran away.”

Gabriel’s head dropped. “I’m sorry. I broke the seal.”

“It’s not your fault!” She sprang from the bed and fell on her knees in front of him. “I know that now. I should have been stronger, I should have intervened, but I didn’t. I ran away and hid because it was _easier_ , easier that trying to fix things. 

“And then I listened to Lucifer. He said all the things I wanted to hear, he made it easy to believe. I didn’t want to think about things any more, I didn’t want to challenge him, I wanted someone to offer me logic and reason, to make me feel good, to make me feel right, and he did!” She laughed bitterly. “And it was all so very, very wrong.”

“He used us both.”

“That doesn’t change what I did. It’s true, I do need to atone – to you, to Alex, to everyone. A few surgeries won’t make things right.”

Unexpected anger boiled up inside him. “ _Nothing_ will make it right!”

“I know that!” She looked up at him, her grey eyes sparkling with tears. “I see the wound in your heart – no procedure can fix it, I can’t suture that hole closed. I can’t stop your pain, Gabriel, the pain I caused. I can’t make Alex feel any better. All I can do it try to fix the root cause.”

“What are you talking about, root cause?”

“I know you’re readying for battle.” She reached up and took his hands in her own. “You’re going to fight Lucifer. Take me with you, let me fight alongside you and Michael.”

Gabriel stood suddenly, nearly knocking over the chair. He backed away from her, shaking his head. “No, no, you’re not well enough for battle.” The excuse was feeble but all he could come up with.

“What difference does it make? If we win, I’ll have eternity to heal, if not, will it really matter? Please, brother, _please_.”

“I don’t know.” He moved toward the door, refusing to meet her gaze. He didn’t want to see the misery there, the desperation. He’d seen too much of it in the mirror. “It’s up to Michael, to Jenkins. It’s…it’s their decision.”

He was almost out the door when she sprung to her feet and grasped his hand. “Wait,” she said plaintively, “I asked you to come here for a reason.”

He stopped, his other hand on the door knob. Still he refused to look her in the eyes. “What?”

“It’s Alex.”

“What about him?” His voice sounded like the growl of a protective bear.

“Nothing bad, don’t worry. I saw him today, in the infirmary. I noticed something – the bruise on his forehead. It was… _gone_.”

“Swelling that goes down, what of it?”

“It was more than that; he had a obvious scalp hematoma when he came in after the attack. Today – nothing. I checked the laceration on his arm, too. He had 22 sutures there, it was a significant wound. Gabriel – it’s almost entirely healed.”

Now he looked up at her. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know. Alex mentioned that he’d always been a fast healer, but this, this is extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like it…in a human.”

“Only in a higher angel.”

“Or an archangel.”

He pulled his hand out of her grasp. “I don’t understand what difference it makes. He can’t exactly ‘heal’ Lucifer away.”

“No.” A tiny rueful smile danced across her face. Gabriel had always had the most interesting way of putting things. “But he’s your son and I thought you should know.”

“Yes, well…thank you.” He opened the door and stepped outside. He still felt so damned awkward, so lost when it came to dealing with her. He should have been embracing her, kissing the top of her scarred head, brushing the tears off of her bruised cheek. He should have been wishing her goodnight and pleasant dreams but the words stuck in his throat.

He turned back in the doorway. “I’ll speak to Michael and Jenkins. Perhaps there is…something you can do.”

She beamed up at him gratefully. “Thank you, brother.”

They met in the former chapel-turned-office space. Jenkins had gently but firmly suggested to his command staff that they take an hour for a much-needed dinner break. It was going to be a very long night, he said, and he wanted them at their best.

Besides, he wanted some privacy.

Now he stood next to the makeshift display board that was covered with a large road map of Alabama, topographical surveys, and a hand-drawn estimation of what they could expect in Mallory. It was times such as these that he truly missed technology. He would have given his eyeteeth for a PowerPoint presentation, filled with the data downloads from the drones, up-to-the-minute navigation, current weather reports, satellite imagery…

They had something, at least. They weren’t going in blind, he could be happy about that. 

Looking around the room, he was less that happy about what he saw there. A day before they were going to embark on this little adventure and the core group was less than cohesive, still fractured. It was obvious simply from the way they scattered themselves around the room. Michael perched himself on the edge of a desk, one hand on a sword, his nonchalance an obvious ruse. Gabriel sat a good five feet away from his brother. He had grabbed a chair and spun it around, throwing a casual leg over it to sit in it backwards. He leaned his chin into his hand, propped up on an elbow, a bored teenager in a boring class.

Alex sat even further away behind one of the desks. Noticeably uncomfortably, he had started out rocking back and forth in his chair, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. Now he had found a pen and was doodling furiously on a scrap of paper. Jenkins could practically see the waves of tension coming off him.

Jenkins himself still felt uneasy. It was impossible to disregard Michael and Gabriel’s antics over the last few days, especially the arrival of Raphael. He had found himself creating excuses not to work with the archangels unless absolutely necessary. That needed to change.

And then there was Mouse. Ever the forward thinker, she had positioned herself at a desk right in the front, a short stack of folders on one side, a pad of paper on the other. She would be both his secretary and his second brain – any detail he would need, or forget, he knew she would provide. He watched her for a moment as she made her preliminaries notes and ordered the files, quickly, efficiently going about her business. He’d never regretted the decision to make her his XO. He knew that if anything should happen to him, she would be able to step into his shoes in an instant, to take command and continue the mission to the end.

More than that, she gave him a feeling of peace and security that was sorely lacking in his life right now. Since Charlotte’s death, he’d been working on a kind of personal autopilot, focused on the day that they would defeat Lucifer and not much more. Not really thinking of a future, just “That Day.” And then Mouse, his brave little Mouse, had announced her completely unimagined feelings for him and hell if there wasn’t a bit of light at the end of that dark tunnel.

He wanted to get to that light. He wanted to see what there was on the other side, what could be. First, they had to get through That Day. 

“I’m going to make this as quick as I can,” Jenkins started. “We’ve still got things to sort, but I wanted to get together with the three of you,” he nodded to the two archangels and the Chosen One, “before everything gets underway. First, Alex, I think we owe you an apology. We’ve left you out of the planning of this attack in an attempt to keep you safe. I’m not sure that was the right course of action.”

Alex glanced up from his pen and paper. “I don’t blame you.” His tone was less hostile than expected. “I don’t exactly have all the answers.”

Jenkins nodded. “I’m pleased you’re here with us now, let’s bring you up to date. Alright, very quickly, then. I’ve heard from my people in Vega and Helena. There’s good evidence that the eight-balls’ decision to literally ‘go underground’ was universal. Both cities have put defensive actions plans into effect. Their early strike here may have been their biggest mistake.”

“Only because it was determined how they accomplished it,” Michael said.

“Yes, and we can thank Alex for that.” Jenkins nodded toward him. “There has been some activity around New Haven, I imagine that it’s on the map as well. I think it’s a fair bet that unless they do something in the next 36 hours, Lucifer will signal for the eight-balls to begin their assaults when we strike Mallory. At that time, it’s winner-take-all. It might not have a direct consequence on us in Mallory, but knowing that all that’s left of humanity is under siege is going to have a psychological effect nonetheless.”

There was nothing to say to the news. It was fact and couldn’t be disputed.

“Right then. As of now, we’re still on schedule to unroll staggered deployment. We’ve got three different routes mapped out,” he turned and quickly traced them down the map on the wall, “and I’ve got drones in the air 24/7 making sure that they are clear. My primary concerns are the usual mechanical or road failure.”

Gabriel gave a little snort of disgust. “Lucifer wants us there. He’d probably send eight-balls to tow the bus if it would help.”

“He wants the Chosen One,” Michael corrected.

“He _wants_ an audience. Big Brother never did anything in the corner if it could be done on the stage. He’ll want everyone there to see his triumph.”

Jenkins needed to take the conversation back. “That’s as may be. Back to the deployment. The Triple-Deuce will be in on the first wave, they will secure the area we’ve selected.” He pointed to a spot on the map east of Mallory. “It’s got a bit of elevation, so we’ve got a height advantage, and about a half-mile away from the target.”

“Have you seen any activity in the area?” Gabriel asked. “It was suspiciously quiet when I was there.”

“Mouse?” Jenkins deferred.

“Drone report as of 1800 still shows nothing in the immediate area. However,” she flipped one folder open, “FLIR indicates increased presence in the forested area to the west. Significantly increased. I don’t think it’s a sudden influx of deer.”

“What is,” Gabriel asked, “FLIR?”

“Forward-looking infrared cameras,” she responded. “Heat signatures. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. It’s hard to say, they’re clustered pretty tight.”

Gabriel blew out a breath. “Well, at least we know where they are now.”

“I don’t get it,” Alex said. “Why are they there? Why would they try to protect Mallory? Lucifer has been killing eight-balls for 25 years with that bonfire of his, why would they do anything that he says?”

Michael turned toward him. “As in any drawn-out war, allegiances change. Look right here – we’re sitting in the same room as Gabriel. Lucifer has found a way to bring the eight-balls to his side, no matter what their differences in the past. Remember, the eight-balls are lower angels, they have more in common with my brother than they do with the humans they stole their bodies from. I’m sure that he found a way to say what they wanted to hear, to convince them that they had a common goal, a common enemy. It’s his greatest strength.”

“You mean he lied to them.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. We still do not know his endgame.”

“So, what’s ours?” Alex turned back to Jenkins. “I mean, we get down to Mallory and what do we do, other than getting overwhelmed by thousands of eight-balls? What am _I_ supposed to do?”

No one said anything for an awkward few seconds, waiting for someone else to speak.

“Seriously?” Alex burst out, unbelieving. “After all this time, you don’t have a plan?”

Jenkins stepped forward. “We do have a plan – the plan is to destroy the church. Lucifer will undoubtedly have it protected, probably by all those eight-balls. That’s what the troops are for.” 

“The church. Why that?”

“The church would seem to be the locus of Lucifer’s power,” Michael explained. “Both Gabriel and I felt his presence there. Whether Lucifer resides inside or is somehow using it, the church is essential to him. If we destroy the church, we may destroy Lucifer. If nothing else, we weaken him so that he can be taken down some other way.”

“Taken down by me.”

“Perhaps. We don’t know, we won’t know until the time comes.”

Alex’s eyes went from Michael to Jenkins to Gabriel. “How am I supposed to do that?”

Michael stood and walked over to him. “Father gave you the markings, he gave you the ability. I have faith that you will find the answer.”

“You have a helluva lot more faith than I do right now. I can cure a hundred eight-balls, maybe even two hundred, but that’s all. Noma was right, it almost killed me, I can’t try to cure thousands, and Lucifer isn’t an eight-ball, he’s not even a dyad. That power isn’t going to work on him.

“And this new power – what is that going to do? I’m still getting it under control, it’s just mindless energy. It’s like a nuclear grenade – I could only use it on Lucifer if he was close and no one else was around.”

“I’m sorry, Alex,” Michael apologized. “I should have been working with you, helping you with the markings, working on your abilities.”

Alex shrugged. “It’s not your fault. Gabriel was right: Lucifer was trying to break us apart, doing whatever he could to make us go our separate ways. It worked.” He glanced over at his father. “And stop smirking just because I said you were right.”

Gabriel tried his best to look innocent. “I think we all agree that our response needs to be fluid. We have enough war experience here in this room to be able to do that. The important thing is that we work together. Obviously, that is what frightens Lucifer the most.” He paused. “To that end, I’d like to sort out one point of contention.” He paused again, as if still considering if he wanted to say the words. “Raphael has asked to join the fight.”

The reaction was far from unanimous. Michael looked thoughtful, while Alex closed his eyes and turned his head away. Mouse watched with concern as her commander stared at a distant point in space, suddenly deflated. The whole room seemed a few degrees colder.

“No.” Alex said, his eyes still closed. The word was small but conveyed much. 

“This isn’t a democracy,” Jenkins countered, but then regarded Michael. 

The archangel shook his head slightly. “Lucifer possessed her when she flew into that storm. We can’t take the chance he would do something like that again.”

“I tend to agree,” Jenkins added.

“At least I don’t have to be the bad guy.” Gabriel pursed his lips. “Are one of you volunteering to tell her?”

“I will,” Michael offered, then continued with unusual hesitation. “In the same vein, Laurel has asked to be included.”

“Brother, she’s carrying your child, do you want to risk that?”

“She’s rather adamant. Lucifer deceived her; she would like to be part of his downfall. And I trust her.”

“If I might make a suggestion?” Mouse spoke up. “I heard she did really well in the infirmary. We could put her with the medics. She would be in the back, as far away from the fighting as possible.”

There were various murmurs of agreement when Alex spoke up. “You could do that with Raphael, too.”

Gabriel stood and walked over to his son. He lifted Alex’s head with a finger under his chin. “Are you feeling well? Just how hard was that blow to your head?”

Alex swatted away his father’s hand in annoyance. Nonetheless, his words did not appear to come easily. “Everyone says that she’s the best doctor in the world right now, it would be stupid to leave her behind. If Michael trusts Laurel, she can keep an eye on Raphael. Besides,” he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing the newest of his tattoos, “Michael said that these markings were about her and Laurel and Noma. One way or another, we should keep her in sight.”

“Michael,” Gabriel said, leaning against a nearby desk, “perhaps you should tell the rest of the class your latest theory.”

Michael took Alex’s arm in his hand, pointing to the trio of paler dots. “Lyrae, Vega, the Morning Star and now The Three Sisters. The markings that have appeared on Alex’s skin have always been a warning, a way to protect us from coming harm. This one was different, not just in its complexity, but in its color. We’ve never before seen a tattoo like this.”

“Shades of grey,” Alex offered. 

“Yes, exactly. I think that, while Laurel, Raphael and Noma may originally have been part of Lucifer’s plan to drive us apart, they may actually be more important to us in some way we do not yet fathom.”

Jenkins frowned. “Is that what you think or what you feel?”

“Both.” There was no hesitation in his response.

The commander blew out a long breath. “Alright then, we’ll put both Laurel and Raphael in with the medicos, I’m sure they’ll be happy with the help. Michael, you can be the one to tell them, and I do want you to tell Laurel about her responsibilities. I don’t expect her to take on an archangel if something goes pear-shaped, but she sure as hell needs to get to someone who can.”

Michael nodded. He still had reservations regarding his sister, but this was a reasonable compromise.

“Unless there’s something else, I think we’ve covered everything I wanted to. Anyone else?” He looked around the room. No one had any response.

Yet there was something there, a subtle difference. The undertones of animosity, the invisible walls that had separated the archangels and the Chosen One were, if not gone, at least diminished. They were even physically closer to each than they had started out, as if no longer repelled like so many celestial magnets. 

Even Jenkins felt it, an ease in the friction even as the stress of the upcoming battle ratcheted up. A small thing, but he could be grateful.

“Commander, could I talk to you?” Alex trotted after Jenkins as he walked down the corridor.

“I’m on my way to the mess, do you want to join me?”

The younger man shook his head. “No, I, um, I don’t really have an appetite right now.”

Jenkins stopped and turned around. “Understandable. What’s on your mind?”

“It’s Sergeant Lopez, sir. My S&R partner. She wants to be in on the battle.”

Jenkins frowned. Another one? It was becoming a bit of an epidemic. “She’s still in the infirmary, isn’t she?”

“Yeah. She’s healing really well, Raphael did…” Alex trailed off. “Naomi – Sergeant Lopez – she’s lost everything to the eight-balls. She doesn’t really have anything left, only the Wildcats. Only the fight.”

The commander clapped him on the side of the shoulder. “I understand. I know the feeling. I’ll see what I can do. Maybe not a combat position, but if she can sit, she can help with support.”

“Thank you, sir.” He gave him a relieved smile.

Jenkins took a long look at him, at the Chosen One, at Charlotte’s son. He reached up and straightened the collar on Alex’s shirt, twisting the captain’s bars just right. It was a tender, fatherly gesture. “You look good in that uniform. Your mother would have been very proud to see you like this.”

Alex’s blond head bowed and his cheeks flushed. “Thank you, sir. I’m proud to wear it.”

“Alright then.” Jenkins tapped him again on the shoulder, turning to leave before his voice betrayed his emotions. “You keep making her proud, and we’ll all be just fine.”

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 19_

_Redstone Arsenal_

Still assigned to S&R, Alex found himself working with another dozen or so soldiers in the all-important task of loading out trucks. Without knowing the exact parameters of the forthcoming battle, it was difficult to estimate just what was going to be needed. Although supplies would only be a few hours away, no one knew if the supply lines would stay open. Ordnance was a requirement, food a necessity, but where one could be a matter of life or death, the other was slightly less urgent. It made for a complex logistical puzzle.

Rather suddenly, Alex was also ranked higher than everyone else there except for Captain Jack. There were a few awkward moments until he carefully took off his outer shirt, the one with the captain’s bars on it, to expose the plain black tee he wore underneath.

He stood in front of the older man and handed the shirt to him. “Could you hold this for me, sir? I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

A smile slowly grew across Jack’s grizzled features. “I’ll put it over there with mine, we’ve both got a lot to do.”

The work was hard and sweaty and mindless. Box after box, case after case, everything from surface-to-air missiles to sweet potatoes. Everything had been meticulously organized – Alex was sure he saw Mouse’s hand in that – but there was materiel for eight battalions in a small-scale war. It went on for hours.

Finally, the sun dipped below the tall buildings on the west side of the complex. Alex watched as the last semi winched its load up onto its rear bed. A specialized self-loading Palletized Loading System truck, he’d never seen anything like it before. The container it carried held nearly half of all of their food and non-medical/non-munition supplies – the loss of that truck would strike a serious blow to Mouse’s well-ordered plans.

Captain Jack bumped his elbow against Alex’s side and silently held out the shirt he had relinquished earlier in the day. They both waved at the driver as the truck headed toward the other side of the base and the convoy that would be readying for departure in the morning. 

“Thanks for your help,” Jack said, slipping his own shirt on. Now that the sun was setting and they had stopped working, the fall temperatures were more noticeable. 

“Part of the job,” Alex said, sliding his arm into one of the long sleeves. The sweat still on his arms made it difficult. 

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to. Says a lot.” His mouth quirked up in the corner. “Pretty fancy ink you got going there.”

Alex laughed and rolled up one sleeve now that he had finally gotten the shirt on. He was tired and sore but it felt good. “Yeah. It was…a gift.” He held out his hand. “An honor to work with you, sir.”

Jack pumped his hand once. “Honor is mine. You do your mom proud.”

Alex smiled. “That’s the idea.”

Gabriel tapped on the door and watched it slowly swing open under the pressure. Doors were not something that archangels typically used for privacy; if they wanted to be alone, they usually found a way to be elsewhere.

Even though they did not have security considerations like Raphael and Laurel, both Gabriel and Michael had been given their own separate rooms, although much smaller than those in the hospital wing. Considering the quantity of forces currently stationed on the base and the barracks-type accommodations, it was still an extravagant allowance. 

Then again, no one had volunteered to bunk with the archangels.

Michael was inside, sitting at a utilitarian desk, running a stone over the edge of one his swords. The other blade lay on the cot beside him, its razor-edge gleaming in the light of the bare bulb that swung overhead. He glanced up, gave a cursory nod to his twin, and continued his work. 

“I can’t believe you’re still using those things after all this time,” Gabriel noted as he let himself into the little room. “They have to be a least a thousand years old.”

“Sentimental attachment. My brother gave them to me,” Michael said dryly, never looking up from his task. “Besides, they were made by the best metalsmith I’ve ever known.” He picked the sword up and balanced it on one finger just off-center. “Perfectly weighted, straight and true. They really were your best work.”

“I had inspiration – the best swordsman I’ve ever known.”

Michael wiped down the weapon and set it with its match on the bed. “Have you spoken with Alex?”

Gabriel shook his head. “I honestly don’t think I’m the one he wants to get a pep talk from before he goes to meet his destiny.”

“Perhaps not, but you’re his father.”

“Yes, and we all know how he feels about that. You’ve been more a father to him than I can ever be.” Gabriel dropped his gaze to the ground. “Thank you for that.”

“If you’d known, Gabriel, known he was your son from the start, things would have been very different.”

For a fleeting moment, Michael watched his brother’s mind wander to that other life, a life that might have been with the woman he loved, happily raising their child. Thoughts that should have brought forth contentment and joy instead invoked pain and regret. 

“I didn’t and they weren’t,” Gabriel said finally. “Nonetheless, you’ve done well with Alex. I hope it’s enough.”

“I have faith.”

“I have less, which is why I brought you these.” He presented a large bundle wrapped in a blanket. “I know you’ve been fighting light of late but given that I’ve felt you take a knife to the heart once already, I’d rather if you didn’t go into this little melee unprotected. Your death has a way of taking away from my concentration.”

Michael suppressed a smile as he took the bundle. Gabriel sometimes had a unique way of showing his affections; nevertheless, they were real.

Within the folds of the blanket lay a set of new leather armor: breast plate, back piece and arm bracers. They were intricately detailed with carved lines and designs, including the three-lobed Celtic knot that Gabriel wore on his own. On the very front of the breast plate was a majestic griffon, a fearsome eagle with a lion’s body. For thousands of years, the mystical beast had been associated with the Archangel Michael in story and song.

His brother was in awe. “Gabriel, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll wear the damn things.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” He ran his fingertips over the designs. “They’re exquisite.”

“They’re lined with empyrean steel, that’s the important thing.” Gabriel’s mouth twisted up in the corner. “I needed something to do and you already had two swords.”

Michael stood and grasped his twin’s arm. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“You can thank me by not getting yourself killed. I’m serious, Michael, I don’t think I could take losing you, too. Besides, you’re going to have a child of your own, soon; I’d rather not have to explain to Laurel how I let you into battle ill-prepared. I’d wrap you in empyrean steel if I could, but I didn’t think you would wear it.”

Beyond the jest, Michael could see that his brother was serious. “This is perfect, really, you know exactly what I need.”

“We’ve fought each other enough lately,” Gabriel growled, “I certainly should know.” Then his head tipped a little to the side, his expression quizzical.

“What is it?” Michael asked.

“It’s you, there’s something…different.”

“You’ve known me since the moment of my creation, brother, I doubt anything could be that different to you.”

“No, no, there’s something that’s changed.” Gabriel took a step back, then a grin slowly blossomed across his face. “Your hair, it’s your hair! It’s positively fluffy!” he laughed. “No doubt that woman of yours has had some influence.”

Michael blushed a deep red, a very rare thing. His ran his hand over the top of his dark head, now in a style less severe than he had worn before. “What of it? Laurel cut it for me, I didn’t want it in my eyes in battle. Not that you had any problems seeing through that fringe you wore.”

Gabriel pressed his lips together but he couldn’t rein in the smirk. “A style you could hardly pull off, brother,” he teased. “Mind your woman doesn’t clip your wings, too, the next time she’s snipping your hair. She’d determined enough to find a way to domesticate you into a house pet.”

Michael turned away so that Gabriel would not see the look that played over his features – it never did to encourage his brother when his was in this kind of a mood. He also knew that behind the joking there was a certain amount of sadness, Michael’s happiness only a reminder of what Gabriel had lost – he did not want his brother to see the pity in his eyes.

Yet it was wonderful, this playful banter, something that they had been missing for a very long time. The bond between them had been stretched almost to breaking, but it had held, held through everything that Lucifer and Father and Fate had thrown at them. Above all else, they were family.

He turned back toward Gabriel, now serious. “You know there is no one else I’d rather go into battle with.”

“You’re my twin, Michael, my other half. How could I let you fight alone?”

Michael put out his arm, palm up. “As brothers then?”

Gabriel grasped his forearm, his grip firm, his face stern but proud. “As brothers.”

Gabriel found the Chosen One in an outbuilding that had been picked to use as a stable. An old metal supply hut, Jenkins had had two sections of the sides torn out to let the cool night breeze flow through. Stacked hay and a bag of feed sat in one corner while in another a crude stall had been built, with tack and blankets hanging on a nearby wall.

Alex stood at one end of the room next to the dark form of Freyja, his mother’s horse. The young man had a brush buckled over one hand and was calmly running it over her powerful, sloping shoulders. The horse whickered when she saw the archangel, pawing gently at the ground.

Gabriel walked up to her head, which she bobbed in greeting. He reached out and rubbed the space between her large, dark eyes. “Hello, Freyja. It’s good to finally meet you.” Pulling a few bits of wild carrot out of a pocket, he held them in his hand for the horse to nuzzle up. “My, you’re a beautiful thing.” _Just like your mistress_ , he thought to himself.

Alex continued brushing, moving down her flanks, flicking only an occasional glance at his father. “Jenkins was teaching me about her. He said she’s a Friesian. Her ancestors might have been war horses. Seems kind of appropriate.”

 _Jenkins_. Another man so willing to step in and fill the role of teacher, of surrogate father for Alex. Gabriel wondered if the boy had any idea how many men cared for him, helped to mold his character, to create the person he was. How many _good_ men. He hoped it was enough.

“I’m glad they decided to bring her along,” Gabriel said, stroking the mare’s nose. The rest went unsaid – the horse was a thin thread to Charlotte, a relic of her time on earth, a kind of living talisman. Everyone felt the same way.

Alex continued to silently brush, working his way back toward Freyja’s long, wavy tail. 

“I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow.” Gabriel said quietly.

Brush, brush, brush. “None of us do.” 

“I can’t take you away from your destiny.”

Alex stopped and turned toward him. “No one’s asking you to. This is the day I’ve been heading for my whole life. I accepted it a while ago.”

A kind of pride sang within Gabriel’s chest, something he hadn’t expected to feel, but it wouldn’t do to let it show. He pursed his lips and squinted, as if he were trying to see the truth behind his son’s words. “Lucifer has a way of manipulating people, Alex, figuring out what they want, what they fear, and using it for his own means. You need to be aware of that when we face him.”

Alex looked thoughtful. “I will.” He turned back to the horse. 

There was a long, awkward silence punctuated only by the sounds of the brush and the happy snorts it elicited in Freyja. Eventually, Gabriel broke the stillness. “When I brought Raphael back, you told me in no uncertain terms that you wanted nothing to do with me, and you rather vehemently returned this.” Gabriel fished in another pocket and pulled out the silvery ring. “I was hoping you’d take it back. It was to be your mother’s.”

“I know.”

Gabriel tried to hold down his frustration – _why did Alex have to make everything so damn difficult?_ “You’re going to have a choice to make sometime soon,” he continued, “and I want you to remember her when you make it. Remember her and the person she was and what she stood for. Think about your mother, not me.”

Alex stared at the silver circlet. Finally, he bobbed his head toward a table nearby. “Leave it there.”

Tight-lipped, his father did as requested. “Well then.” There wasn’t really much left to say. The archangel turned to go.

“Gabriel.”

He stopped but did not turn back.

“I know you’re trying. Thank you.”

It took everything he had, every ounce of control Gabriel could muster not to run back to Alex, to wrap his son up in his arms and never let him go. He wanted to hold Alex and keep him safe and protect him and let him unburden his heavy soul and cry with him and share his loss and tell him how very _proud_ he was and to simply _be his father._ But he couldn’t do that, he’d given up that right long, long ago.

Instead, turned back and gave a quick nod, a nonchalant affirmation that only hinted at how much those words had meant to him.

Because he _was_ trying.

And perhaps, perhaps just a little, he was succeeding.

It was nearly midnight when Michael found Alex. His nephew was exactly where he thought he would be, atop the control tower for the airfield that had served the base since World War II. It might not have technically been the “highest perch,” but it did give the best, unobstructed view of the area, the old corrugated sheet metal walls with their faded red and white checkerboard pattern still standing watch after all these many years.

Michael landed atop the roof, picking his way cautiously through the metal stubble of broken antennae and radar dishes. Alex sat square in the middle, legs crossed, his uniform shirt off and tucked under his right leg. The moonlight picked up the lines and swirls of the tattoos that covered his torso and arms.

Father’s last words.

The archangel approached carefully, not wanting to interrupt his protégé’s concentration. “I know you’re there,” Alex informed him, his eyes still closed. “I heard you land.”

Michael squatted next to him. “You’ve been meditating. Good. It will help to clear your mind for what’s to come.”

Alex opened his eyes only to roll them in exasperation. “I’ve been _trying._ Nothing you taught me worked. I thought…I thought maybe I could have another one of those vision things, but all I get are thoughts whirling around in my head.”

“What kind of thoughts?”

“I don’t like where this is going. Everyone is gearing up for this great battle against Lucifer and his army, everyone wants to fight him, but I feel like it’s wrong, it’s all wrong. There’s got to be some way around it, something I can do. I’m the Chosen One, I’m supposed to fix things, but all I seem to have done is start another war and cause a lot of death.”

“You haven’t caused it, Alex. It’s not your fault.”

“But it is, don’t you see? Too many people have paid the price for what I am. If I wasn’t the Chosen One, Jeep wouldn’t have been stabbed, Bixby wouldn’t have been hurt, Senator Frost wouldn’t have been shot, Claire wouldn’t have taken a bullet – twice! Willow would have been born, and my mom…my mom wouldn’t have died…” He leaned forward and put his face into his hands. “It _is_ my fault.”

Michael watched him, heard the burden that the Chosen One carried, and his heart ached along with him. Yet there was more. As the young man spoke, Michael could see a faint, warm light dance over the tattoos, illuminating a design here or there. The lights grew with Alex’s confession, then faded as he bent over in contrition.

Michael had never seen anything like it before. Still, it was the pain in his young friend’s heart that worried him the most. “You can’t say that these things were your doing, Alex. Our lives are more than simple cause and effect.”

“That’s what my mom tried to tell me when I told her about Noma’s wings, that it wasn’t my fault. Then my mom died, too. I can’t let it happen anymore, Michael. I can’t let more people die. I have to figure out how to use these damn markings and go after Lucifer myself. I’ve got to find some way to stop him before he hurts anyone else.”

The combination of courage and sorrow struck deeply at the archangel. It really was true, Alex possessed the last pure heart, a heart possessed of a deep, deep love, torn apart by guilt and grief. 

So much like his father.

And yet Alex refused to give up on his destiny, refused to turn away from the path that he had been set upon since birth. He was so very, very brave.

So much like his mother.

Michael felt his own heart swell with pride. Alex may not have been his flesh-and-blood son, but nothing could change the bond that they had. He remembered for a moment the feelings that had flooded over him during the Darkness when he thought he had lost Alex forever, the pain that was worse than any lance, any sword. Even the echo of the memory hurt. 

He watched the boy, stared at the swirls and whorls, and a kind of mental dawning came over him. There was one thing, one common factor that he kept coming back to. He reached out to help Alex to his feet. “I’m sorry, Alex, I think I’ve done you a terrible disservice. We’ve been looking at the tattoos all wrong. We’ve neglected to take into consideration their source.” His brow was furrowed as he tried to sort out the ideas that were running through his mind.

Alex brushed at the tears on his face. “What do you mean? Can you read something new?”

“No, no, not that, but I’m beginning to see what their true purpose is.” Michael gave a self-conscious half-smile. “At least I think I do. We’ve treated them as some kind of weapon, a source of power. That’s not what they are.”

“I don’t understand. You were the one that got them from your Father, didn’t you know what they were for?”

“I thought I did. They were Father’s last words. I thought they were a message. Gabriel thought they were a way to bring Father back. Then, when you started to find ways to use them, I thought they might be the weapon that would defeat Lucifer, but now I think that they’re much more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve all forgotten where they came from, from a God of creativity and love. Father considered humanity to be His highest achievement, His greatest creation. Even when He sent me and my siblings to mete out His wrath, He did it as a Father punishes a child, because He wanted to put humanity back on course, to guide it to its ultimate potential.”

“So, what does that have to do with my markings?”

“I saw something now, when you were talking about your mother, about Claire and Bixby, about Noma. The markings, they glowed, very softly.”

His protégé frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense. They only do that when I, well, blow shit up.”

“You told me that you’ve been working to control it; how do you do that?”

Alex turned and walked toward the edge of the roof. The coolness of the evening was more evident now but that wasn’t what chilled him. He didn’t like thinking too much about the potential for destruction that lay within him – the debacle with the locked door had proven his power was too dangerous. It had been a minor blessing that Michael had been too distracted to work with him over the last few days. Their previous training had often been exhausting, but then to include trying to harness and control the incredible power he had only recently been able to unleash…

“When it works, when it’s the most powerful,” he started, “it seems that I’ve always been afraid. Someone’s in danger, or they could be in danger. And I’m angry at the people that are threatening them. The fear and the anger, that’s what seems to fuel it the most, that’s when its, you know, most destructive. I tried using it once, a different time, when nothing was really wrong, but I could barely control it – I got caught up in the memories of my mom’s death and things started spiraling out of control. Naomi – Sergeant Lopez – she managed to stop me before I did anything stupid, but it was close. She talked me down.”

Michael pondered this for a few moments but the look on his face showed that he was pleased with what he heard. “Let me ask you this – if you could have controlled this power from the beginning, what would you have done with it?”

“That’s easy. I’d have saved Noma from Julian, saved my mom. Hell, I would have saved you from getting hurt, Raphael would have never touched you. That was what set me off when I blew out the farmhouse – Raphael was talking about you like you were dead. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“You and Gabriel saved my life that day.”

Alex’s head shook gently. “I can’t do it, Michael. I can’t lose anyone else. Especially you.”

It was rare for Alex to express himself directly like this and Michael knew it. They both had a natural reticence when it came to matters such as these. Perhaps, the archangel thought, he had taught it to the boy. “I know I haven’t always gone easy on you.” He handed Alex the shirt that had been laying on the ground. “Here, put this back on, it’s getting colder.”

“Thanks.” Alex pulled the shirt over his head. “You did what you had to. I know you were doing what you thought was right.”

“I needed to prepare you for this time, to make sure you could face what was ahead of you.”

“You did a good job. No,” he grinned sheepishly, “you did the best. Except for maybe that whipping.”

Now it was Michael’s time to shake his head, but he couldn’t hide the hint of a rueful smile. “That, you deserved.” Then his tone turned somber. “I did it out of love, I did it _all_ out of love. That’s what I’m talking about, the same love that Father has for you, for all of humanity. This is what we’ve been missing, what we didn’t understand, the real key to the power of the tattoos. I don’t think it’s the act as much as the emotions that matter. It’s not fear that controls the markings, Alex – it’s not anger, its love. The fear and the anger, they exist because of the threat to the people that you care about. Your love for Noma, for your mother, even for me, those are the emotions that allowed you to tap into all of that power.”

He could see Alex processing what he had said, scrolling through the times he had used the markings, ticking off the how’s and why’s. Noma, his mother, Michael…Alex’s heart had been breaking every time. Even the time he had tried to open the door with Naomi he’d called up mental images of his mother, how much he missed her. 

Even when he had changed the eight-balls, it had been to save someone, to protect Noma or Claire or even the citizens of Vega. His people. It was starting to make sense now. 

“Then your Father’s last words…”

“Are exactly that – words, the most powerful words. Not warnings or weapons like we thought they were. That’s why they’re so beautiful, Alex, they’re all words _of love_.”

_Vega_

“Who the hell is this and why are you calling me at,” Ethan checked his watch, sitting on the table next to his bed, “one-thirty in the morning?”

“What if I was your commanding officer?” Alex laughed into the radio. “Are you going to talk to him like that?”

“Alex?” He sat up, rubbing at his eyes. “So, yeah, _that’s_ not going to happen. After you left, they made me lieutenant colonel. I outrank you now.”

“God, they must be getting desperate. Obviously, they never heard about the liquor you stole from all those V-6’s.”

“Hey, I was liberating that stuff! Same thing the new council did when they took over, I was just a little ahead of my time.”

“Yeah, well you still owe me money, whatever your rank.”

“Get your ass back here and I might just pay you.”

“That’ll be the day,” Alex said, then fell silent. 

“Hey, what’s up?” Ethan’s voice was a conspiratorial whisper. “Have you found Noma?”

The question was unexpected but perhaps it shouldn’t have been. The three of them, Ethan and Noma and Alex, had been a kind of unholy trio in the Corps for as long as Alex could remember. They were more than just friends, more than best friends. If Alex was Ethan’s brother, Noma would have been his sister.

Until she came out as an angel.

“I did, or more like she found me. She’s still working with Lucifer. It’s complicated.”

“Aw, shit, I was hoping she’d…I don’t know, switch back? It was hard enough finding out that she was an angel all this time and didn’t tell us.”

“Noma’s real good at keeping secrets. You know that.”

A sound of exasperation came through the line. “Tell me about it. I wonder if we would have ever found out she was an angel if Gabriel hadn’t let that cat out. Fuckin’ angels.” Then he backtracked. “I mean, no offense. Your dad’s an archangel and your girlfriend’s a higher angel, and then there’s Michael…”

Alex laughed. “Fuckin’ angels is right.”

“Do you ever wonder, I mean, what our lives would have been like? You know, without the angels and the eight-balls and everything.”

“You mean what it would have been like to grow up normal? Yeah, sometimes. But then I think that I wouldn’t have been there to keep your scrawny ass in line, so I guess you can be grateful.”

“Right. You’ve got that backwards, my friend. You’d be toast without me.”

Suddenly, Alex was overcome with a terrible urge to drop everything and go back. Back in time, back to his home, back to his friends. “I love you, man. I want you to know that. You’ve been the best brother anyone could ask for.”

“I love you, too.” Ethan was uncharacteristically soft-spoken. “I wish I was there with you to cover your six.”

“I wish you were, too. You take care of Vega for me. I don’t want to have to come back there and put it all back together – again.”

“Just make sure you do come back, okay? I don’t want to miss the opportunity to boss you around.” There was a moment of silence between them. “Shit’s gonna go down, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow or the next day. Maybe. I’m going to see if I can do something to avoid it. A least for everyone else.”

“Don’t worry about us, we’re ready. We finally got the wall cannons up again, did you hear? And that intel that you guys sent, about the tunnels and the sewers, we’ve already set countermeasures. There’s at least another battalion of Wildcats here; we’re almost at full strength with them. I’ve been working with the new commander that they sent, he’s kind of hot. Blond, blue eyes, reminds me of you, but you know, better looking.”

“I’m sure you’ll make a lovely couple.”

“If we make it through this, maybe I’ll take the chance and ask him out.”

“Don’t wait, Ethan. Grab some happiness while you can. Nobody can promise us tomorrow.”

“Dude, you’re sounding kinda depressing. Is it that bad?”

Alex paused. How could he explain the feelings that had been building up inside him for the last few days? Fear and dread and self-preservation all competing with an overwhelming sense of responsibility and something else, something he hadn’t quite been able to figure out. “I’m going to do everything I can to fix things, Ethan. That’s my job, I’m the Chosen One.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll always be just Alex to me.”

“Thanks, man, I appreciate that.”

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 20_

_Redstone Arsenal_

General muster was scheduled for 0700. They would assemble at the airfield where the convoy vehicles would be filled (or some cases overfilled) and sent on their way. The goal was to get all viable personnel down to the collection point outside of Mallory in one huge logistical nightmare of a trip.

Over two thousand fighting personnel.

Fifty different vehicles, from Humvees to converted school buses…

…five semis, filled with everything from beef jerky to bullets…

…four luxury campers converted into mobile medical/surgical support units…

…three self-propelled armaments, on specially constructed “quick off-load” tractor-trailers…

…two fully loaded fuel tankers festooned with a variety of spare tires…

…and one horse-trailer.

It was an hour before roll call and the two archangels had arrived early. They, of course, would not need the use of a vehicle to make the trip, but both knew the necessity of being visible during the beginning of maneuvers. Jenkins had asked them to make themselves conspicuously obvious before flying off. 

Gabriel looked around at the assembled fleet of vehicles. “The humans do have a way of making a production of things, don’t they?”

“They’re facing our brother, Lucifer, the greatest of all archangels.” Michael tapped his chest, thudding lightly on the leather-covered empyrean plates that covered it. “We’re all preparing for the worst.”

His brother’s lips pressed into a tight line. “I feel like we’re sending children off to play war. They have no idea what they’re up against.”

“They’re resourceful, you should know that as well as anyone, and they don’t know when to quit.”

“Must you bring up Hoover Dam once again? Shall I never live that down?”

“They defeated you, Gabriel. Even with all your forces, they found a way. I think they can find a way here, too.”

“Perhaps.” He pulled his sword from his scabbard. “I’m not about to sit back and see if they do. I have a certain grudge against our long-lost brother. He owes me 25 years of my life.”

Michael nodded. Lucifer’s interference had cost Gabriel the one thing he treasured above all else – family. Michael thought that the pain might actually be worse now, worse because now Gabriel had known again the love of the woman Father had chosen for him; known a brief glimpse of the happiness that he could have had; known too, now, that he had a son, and that that son wanted nothing to do with him.

The subject presented itself. “Have you seen Alex this morning?”

“No, I thought he was with you.” Gabriel’s head cocked to the side ever so slightly. “But you haven’t seen him, have you? Nooo,” he purred out. “No, I don’t want to play this game again; it turned out poorly last time.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve been with Jenkins since daybreak. Alex wasn’t with us, and if he wasn’t with you –”

“He could be anywhere. We shouldn’t leap to conclusions.” However, it was obvious that Gabriel had already done exactly that. He turned toward one of the large hangars that had been used as a garage. 

Michael followed behind as they moved toward a pair of men in heated discussion near the open hangar door. 

Gabriel was the first there. “You’re missing a vehicle, aren’t you?”

The older of the two men nodded. “Yeah. An old Jeep. Command staff was supposed to drive it down. Not sure what they’re going to ride in now.”

The archangel spun on his brother. “He’s done it again, Michael! Gone off on his own without a care for his safety or anyone else.”

“I think if you remember the last time Alex did this, he was going to meet you at your aerie.”

“Don’t mock me, brother. My son is missing and we don’t know how long he’s been gone. If he left during the night – we might be able to catch him if we fly.”

“Gabriel!” Michael caught his brother’s arm before the other angel could take off. “I understand your concern, believe me, I feel the same way, but I want you to remember one thing – this is Alex’s calling. It is his destiny to face Lucifer.”

“Not alone! He needs us, he needs every one of us.”

“No, he doesn’t. Do you remember what Raphael said when she first arrived at the farmhouse? ‘The Prophecy said that the Chosen One will stand alone.’”

Gabriel pulled his arm away petulantly. “I don’t remember any prophecy like that.”

“I don’t either, but Raphael was working on interpreting them for 25 years. She may have deciphered more when she went into hiding.”

“You want me to trust the lunatic ravings of our mad sister? She was out of her mind, Michael, she was ready to kill both of us. Do you really think we can trust what she had to say about the Prophecies?”

“We can speak with her now but I don’t think it will change the truth. This is Alex’s destiny, and most importantly, he heard her say it. I’m sure that is why he left.”

Gabriel stared at him open-mouthed, his breath coming in great heaves, his wide, grey eyes shining with the threat of tears. “He’s my son. I can’t…I can’t abandon him again.”

Michael looked away, struggling to control the emotions that threatened to overtake him as well. Alex was just as much a son to him as he was to Gabriel, but he knew to the depths of his core that this was the path that the Chosen One must take. 

That didn’t mean they had to stand by idly. Once again, he grasped at his brother’s arm. “Alex’s fate may mean that he faces Lucifer alone, but that doesn’t mean he has to face anything else by himself. We’re still going to Mallory, Gabriel. We’re going to be right behind your son. The Chosen One won’t be alone for long.”

Jenkins launched from his chair, almost toppling over it and the desk he had been sitting at. “What? Alex is gone?” he shouted.

Michael put up his hands, trying to calm the fuming commander. “This is Alex’s destiny. He chose to confront Lucifer by himself, to fulfill one of the Prophesies.”

“I don’t give two shits about your bloody Prophesies. Alex knows better than that; he’s a soldier, he knows to follow orders, and his orders were to go to Mallory with the rest of us.”

“Alex is the Chosen One. He has a path that he cannot stray from.”

“All this ‘Chosen One’ mumbo-jumbo – you’ve set him up to do this, to go in there on a suicide mission. We had a plan, Michael, we had a good plan. Shell the church until it was just a smoking hole in the earth and turn Lucifer into applesauce. That’s what we were going to do, that’s what we decided on, that’s why the heavy artillery is already on its way down to Mallory. But no, you’ve sent the boy into the belly of the beast with this crap about _destiny –_ it’s not right! I can’t point a howitzer at that church if I know Alex is inside!”

Gabriel had been silent until now. “Michael, the man has a very good point,” he said with forced patience. “I’d rather not have my son ‘turned into applesauce.’”

“Of course not. We will have to formulate another campaign of attack.”

“The idea was to try to prevent a ground war,” Jenkins sat back in his chair, trying to compose himself. He liked Alex, not only because the boy was Charlotte’s son, but because he seemed like good kid. But this reckless side of the Chosen One had thrown a huge spanner into their plans. “I thought Alex understood that.”

“He does,” Michael said. “I believe that is the reason he left. He feels incredible guilt over the lives that have already been lost.”

Jenkins mulled this over for a few seconds. “I don’t want to say this, but I have to – has anyone considered that Alex might have just run away? Not gone to Mallory, but run off to hide?”

Gabriel’s lip curled up on one side. “My son would not do that.”

“From what I’ve heard, he’s done it before. He was AWOL from his unit, even stole a vehicle. It’s in his records.”

“But he _returned_.” Michael was adamant. “Yes, at first he tried to run from his destiny, but not now. He knows that he is the key to defeating Lucifer. He would not leave us, he would not betray mankind. That is not who Alex is.”

Jenkins stared at the corner of his desk, seeing nothing. His mind was whirling with possibilities. “Alright then, if you trust him that much.”

“I do.” It was Gabriel who answered. “I have faith in him.”

Michael looked over at his brother. This was not the answer that he had expected.

“Then we’ll still deploy as planned, but we’ll hold the heavy artillery in reserve until we have a better feel for the situation.” The commander stood again and tugged on the bottom of his shirt to straighten it. “Gentlemen, I suggest we move out. There are only so many hours of daylight and we’re going to need all of them to get this thing done.”


	11. Chapter 11 Part 1

Part Two

_1 Corinthians 13: As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away._

_Chapter 11_

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 20_

_Mallory_

Alex pulled the green Jeep up to a stop, parking along an old wooden fence. He’d driven through the night and into the morning – it had taken him nearly ten hours to make the trip. The roads, while not impassable, were no longer made for high speeds, the asphalt pitted by weather and cracked by trees and plants. The Jeep had been the perfect vehicle, easily bumping over debris and through potholes, its engine rumbling along contentedly even though the odometer read nearly 300,000 miles. No wonder his dad had loved them so much.

A peaceful golden glow infused the land, the noontime autumn sun casting down a gentle warmth. All around him he could see fields, a patchwork of squares of different colors – green, brown, black. Hay had recently been cut, leaving behind short, stubbly grass, the scent of it still hanging in the air. In some fields, crops had been harvested, the spent stalks and vines left to desiccate in the late fall sunshine, to return their nutrients to the rich, dark soil. Still other areas were full of greenery, root vegetables and squash that had not yet finished growing.

It was bountiful, lovely, a bucolic picture postcard.

It was all wrong.

Alex could feel them, the eight-balls, like one could sense the coming fury of a storm. They were not far off, hundreds, no _thousands_ of them, collecting on the outskirts of the town, hiding in forests and trees and fields. An ant army of the possessed, massing for the attack.

They hadn’t bothered him on the way down, letting him drive unimpeded with only the occasional fallen limb or sinkhole to cause any real problem. He was sure he knew why but was ironically grateful at the same time. Going to one’s fate was one thing, having to fight your way there was another.

He again looked at the town, an idyllic façade of simple country life. The houses were in exquisite condition, whitewashed and painted, each of them graced by a garden or small animal pen. The main street was without ruts or stones, perfectly maintained. Children ran by, laughing and yelling, their voices mixing with the lowing of cattle as the herd tramped out to pasture. A dog barked happily, chasing the stick a young boy had thrown. Everything was so peaceful, a small part of his brain wondered how Michael had ever found the strength to leave.

Then he saw it, the church. It rose up in the center of the square, the tallest building by far, with its bell tower rising above the rest of the town. Michael had told him a little about it, but he hadn’t expected it to be that, well… _cute_. Not when Lucifer lived there.

The bonfire, the never-ending bonfire, burned in front. Now that was more acceptable, the fires of Hell right there for everyone to see. If they only understood.

A figure came out from behind the church and started walking his way. He knew that gait, that purposeful stride. His stomach felt as if it were flipping and his heart beat faster in his chest.

Noma was in the brown leather jacket, t-shirt and jeans that he had last seen her wearing in Vega. Her hair was braided down her back – better to stay out of her wings, she had once told him. 

Alex sighed to himself. Those damn wings.

She smiled softly as she approached him. “Hi.”

“Hey, Nomes.”

“So, you, uh, made it.”

“Yeah.” He patted the hood of the old Jeep. “This’ll get me anywhere I want to go.”

For the briefest of moments, he could see something in her eyes. She wanted him to go, to get into the Jeep and drive away and never look back. She was afraid, afraid for him, and there was nothing she could do about it. She wanted to scream out “RUN!” and force him to leave, but she couldn’t.

“Nice place you’ve got here.” Alex said nonchalantly, trying to change the subject, to save her the pain.

“Yeah, it is.” She gazed around at the fields and farms, trying to banish the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. “It’s kind of perfect. I told him he should rename it Eden, but he said that was too literal.”

“Him?”

She shrugged. “Lucifer.”

They walked through the town garnering a mix of reactions. Many, it seemed, knew Noma. They offered her smiles and general greetings of the day, but when they saw her companion, a stranger, the geniality abruptly vanished. 

“Nice people,” Alex said quietly. He gave an awkward little wave to a small child, only to have her immediately hide behind her stern-looking mother’s skirts. “Real friendly.” He watched another woman disappear behind a screen door to be replaced by a stocky man holding a shotgun.

“Strangers usually mean trouble,” Noma explained.

“Like Michael was.”

“Yeah. They lost their leader a little while ago, too. Nobody knows what happened to her.”

Alex was just about to answer that – he knew exactly what had happened to Laurel – but then he stopped. It was interesting that Noma was still in the dark. “But you’re everybody’s friend,” he said instead.

“I kinda got an introduction.”

“By the Prophet?”

She gave an embarrassed grimace that confirmed his guess. 

They continued on for a few seconds and then Noma suddenly stopped and spun around toward him. “Alex, are you sure you want to do this? Are you really, really sure?”

“Nomes, I don’t even know what ‘this’ is supposed to be.” He looked around the town, up the street to the bonfire and the church. “All I know is that I’m supposed to be here, that my whole life, everyone I’ve met and everything I’ve done, has been setting me up for being here. The Prophecies say that I have a choice to make, and I’m going to do it.”

“But you don’t have to do it. You could turn around right now, you could leave. We could both leave.” She reached for his hand. “Alex, we could both get in that Jeep and drive away and never come back.”

He squeezed her fingers tightly. “That would be making a choice, Nomes, and that’s not what I choose.”

She nodded, her wide hazel eyes perhaps a bit too shiny. “Alright. I’ll take you to him then.”

Alex had been in only a few churches in his life. He wasn’t a very religious kind of person – a fact that he found relatively ironic since it seemed that he had been literally _sent by God_ – but he found organized religion to be a little mind-numbing. He understood that religion had its place, and that some people took it very seriously, but it wasn’t something that he was a part of.

Except there, in the very center of the crowded altar of the little church of Mallory, was the statue of the Chosen One, the babe in raised hands. Alex _was_ a part of that religion, and that was the part he disliked the most.

Once again it hit him how little he felt like a Messiah, a Savior, a Chosen One. He was just a soldier, a man, a guy who happened to have a bunch of tattoos on his body. 

His gaze ran over the myriad of statuary, icons and other religious items – he could identify a few, but not all. The Buddha, Shiva, a Torah, Jesus on the Cross, there were so many. And so many candles… He had always wondered about the candles – why? Claire had told him that burning a candle was like sending a long-term prayer - he wasn’t so sure about that. 

He hoped that when this was all over, nobody would burn candles for him.

“Kind of a lot, isn’t it?” Noma said, standing next to him. “So many ways to worship.”

“Yeah. Are any of them right?”

“None of them right, none of them wrong.” She smiled. “Humans have to figure out how they see the divine in their own way. Heck, even angels say ‘Father’ when we could just as well say ‘Mother’ or “Creator” or any other word. ‘Father’ just sounded, you know, appropriate for humanity.”

“But then Father left, didn’t he?” a cultured voice interrupted. “So it really doesn’t matter what we call Him anymore.”

A man entered from a side door of the church, stepping onto the small altar. The dawning sun streamed through the church windows, perfectly placed for his arrival, like a spotlight for a clothing ad. He rather looked like a model, too, in a loose white shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, and matching white slacks perfectly tailored to his trim, athletic build, the snowy cloth setting off the golden glow of his skin. His hair was a mass of luxurious, soft waves gently framing his face and falling just to his collar, the blond color a perfect contrast to his intense green eyes. 

Alex couldn’t help but to stare – he’d never seen anyone quite so perfect. Not unless it had been in picture books, that is, old photographs of statues that Claire had shown him, masterpieces of stone long turned to rubble.

The newcomer offered a welcoming smile, warm and gracious, nothing like the cold marble in the pictures. He was…Alex had to admit…he was _beautiful_.

“Alex.” His voice was like honeyed wine, rich and heady. “After all this time. I’m so glad you’ve finally come. I’m Lucifer.”

Alex continue to stare, slack-jawed. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but this certainly was not it. He was sure that Lucifer would be at least a bit more…diabolical.

“I’m sorry, this is a bit awkward, isn’t it? I know you were rather forced into coming here by circumstances. I can at least offer you hospitality, can’t I?” The archangel stepped off the altar toward the side of the church where a small table stood, covered in pots and jars. “My people are so very generous; let’s see what they’ve left me today. Oh, cider!” He picked up a glass pitcher. “You’ll love this, trust me. They pressed it a few months ago and it’s developed a bit of zip.” He smiled again, his perfectly white teeth in contrast to his lightly bronzed face. “Not too much, just enough to make it interesting. Noma, dear, bring us a couple of cups, would you?”

Noma disappeared into a side room and returned with two pewter goblets. She shrugged obsequiously. “It’s all I could find.”

Lucifer stroked the side of her head, brushing back a stray strand of hair. “They’ll be fine. You worry too much.” He turned and poured the cider out. “Please, Alex, have some. I promise, it’s not drugged or poisoned. I have no desire to do you harm.”

Almost without thought, Alex reached for the drink. He was still dumbfounded; the whole situation kept getting more and more surreal. He shook his head and looked at the goblet in his hand, then at Noma. She gave a quick, affirmative nod – there was no danger there.

Alex took a sip, then a longer drink. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he actually was, how wonderful the cool cider felt on his parched throat. As promised, it carried a hint of alcohol that made it all the more delightful. 

Suddenly the goblet was empty and Lucifer was pouring again. “You’ve travelled a long way, you’ve rather earned a drink or two.” 

“Thank you,” Alex mumbled while he took a step back. It was deceptively easy to start to fall under the oldest archangel’s charms.

Except he didn’t look like the oldest. Alex watched as Lucifer replaced the pitcher and moved toward one of the benches, perching himself on it casually. The angel moved with a kind of languid ease, an effortless grace that made it seem that his body was more a comfortable robe he had slipped on after waking than anything he was forced to live with. 

And he looked young, younger than Michael and Gabriel. Alex considered that age was probably quite relative when it came to the heavenly choir, but the first archangel seemed almost a different generation.

Closer to Alex’s age.

Lucifer rested back and took an appreciative sip of the cider. He sighed. “One misses the little things most of all.” He set the goblet aside and leaned forward. “So, nephew – that one had to be a bit of a shock, didn’t it? Finding out that you’re part of our great, dysfunctional family, about your mother and Gabriel? Father and His machinations.” He spit out the last word as if it had a bitter taste. “He never could stop playing with Gabriel’s heart.”

“Like you did?” Finally, Alex had found his voice. “When you sent Gadreel to break up my parents?” 

“Is that what they told you?” Lucifer seemed both bemused and dismayed. “That it was _my_ fault?”

“Gabriel said –”

“Oh, _Gabriel_ said. Of course. I should have known.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, what story did my brother weave for you?”

Alex was taken aback – the question had come without malice and only a hint of sarcasm. Lucifer seemed to want to understand more than to renounce. “Gabriel said,” Alex stuttered, “he said you sent Gadreel to see him.”

“What else did he say?”

“He said that Gadreel told him my mom was carrying another man’s child.”

“Are those his exact words?”

“What?”

“Are those his exact words?” Lucifer repeated. He edged closer, moving gracefully down the bench. “Come now, you must understand what I mean, you’re an intelligent lad. Are those the exact words he said to you?”

“He didn’t tell me, he told my mom, and she told me.” The memory of that conversation brought a sudden sting to his eyes. She’d been trying so hard to make him see Gabriel’s side, to make him understand, and he had been too stubborn to listen. 

But maybe not. He searched the memory. “No, he said something different to her. He said ‘the child was fathered by another.’”

Lucifer sighed expansively and sat back again. “Oh, Gabriel, Gabriel.” He rubbed his fingers across his brow as if to ward off a headache. “I always wondered what had set him off. Father’s leaving hit him terribly, I know that, but I knew that there had to be something else, some other factor to his…well, let’s be frank, his insanity.”

“What you are talking about?” Alex was angry again. “You set him up! You’re the one that drove him insane!”

“It would be so simple to think that, wouldn’t it?” Lucifer stood and started pacing the small altar. “It’s easy to blame me for all the problems in the world, people have been doing it for millennia. They have one place to focus all their anger and hatred. The problem is, Alex, it’s not true. I’m here trying to _fix_ things, not destroy them. I’m trying to bring some kind of balance, to stop all the fighting, to find _peace_ between the angels and the humans – it’s what I’ve _always_ been trying to do, since the very beginning. Why would I do something to tear your parents’ relationship apart?”

“Are you saying that’s not what Gadreel told him?” Alex asked incredulously.

“Yes, and no – hear me out.” He could tell the young man had little patience left. “Gadreel has been blessed with a gift from Father. Or perhaps we should call it a curse, considering how many times it’s caused problems. Nonetheless, he’s able to foresee into the future – not far, not very specifically – but certain moments, certain things. He’s aided kings in wars, helped prophets and wise men, you know the sort. Usually, but not always, it works out. Sometimes, however, the results are…less than desirable. He had a terrible time with Ezekiel.”

“I don’t care about his prophesy problems, what does this have to do with Gabriel?”

“That’s just it, Gadreel doesn’t have the gift of prophesy. He can only say what he _sees_ , not really what is to come. And what he _saw,_ what he was concerned about and told Gabriel about, was that the child was _being fathered_ by another man. In the future. Another man was raising you.”

“You mean Jeep.”

“Exactly! Gadreel was concerned, he saw how devoted Gabriel had become to your mother – a child was inevitable. Yet in his vision, Gabriel wasn’t there to raise that child, he wasn’t there to be your father.”

“Are you trying to tell me that this was all based on a misunderstanding? That he just didn’t hear Gadreel correctly?”

Lucifer was contrite. “I don’t know, I don’t know what he heard or thought he heard. The truth of the matter is that Gabriel never worked it out, he never went to your mother and asked her about it, did he?”

Alex shook his head. It was something that Charlie had not been able to understand.

“Gabriel could have cleared the whole thing up with one question, but he didn’t. He chose to believe his paranoia instead.” Lucifer glanced back at Alex. “Your father has always been that way, so fragile in his affections, so ready to assume the worst.”

The idea was basic, and yet so mind-blowing – could it actually be true? Was everything – his broken family, the Extermination War, Gabriel’s madness – due to a simple miscommunication? Alex looked over to Noma sitting on another bench and queried her with his eyes. She stared back at him blankly, just as mystified as he was; this was all new information to her, too.

If this was true, if the story was as Lucifer said and not as Gabriel had told Charlie, it put a completely different spin on things. Once again, Alex had to take into consideration the devastation caused by Gabriel’s pride, by his ego, by his suspicious mind. Could that same pride be sending them into war against Lucifer, a war that need not be fought? Gabriel had been the one to put together the notion that Alex was the final key to defeating Lucifer – what if there was no reason to fight the first archangel at all? What if all of this was another one of Gabriel’s paranoid delusions, one that they had all bought into?

“I’m sorry, Alex. I can see I’ve upset you.” Lucifer walked toward him, his palms up. “You’re family, I certainly never meant to cause you this kind of distress. But I wanted to understand what had happened, what happened with my brother. Now you understand, too. This has all been a terrible, terrible mistake.”

Alex tried to shake his head but it felt like it was filled with water and two sizes too big for his neck. The cider, the damn cider, he’d drunk it too fast. Deceptively smooth, it had more than the “bit of zip” Lucifer had claimed and Alex had nothing in his stomach other than a few bites of jerky. He was tired and a little drunk and not in any shape to be considering thoughts this deep. 

Lucifer seemed to read his mind. “You’ve had a long trip here and no rest, you must be exhausted. Why don’t you get some sleep; we’ll speak later. Noma, you’ll find him somewhere to lie down, won’t you?”

“Sure.” She stood and walked to Alex’s side. “I’ve got a place he can stay.” 

“Alex,” Lucifer called after him as they turned to go. “I want to say again how pleased I am that you’re here. I’m very much looking forward to talking with you some more, getting to know my nephew.” He raised his goblet in a casual yet graceful kind of salute.

Alex mumbled out some vague agreement as Noma slipped her hand into his once more. She led him out of the church and he followed her like a puppy, his mind whirling.

They walked back through the town, along a street behind the church. Again, Alex could see the neat rows of houses, the children playing in the yards, the clean laundry hanging out to dry, the tidy gardens, the flowerpots and the rain barrels. Everything was simple, rustic, unencumbered by technology and science. 

“It looks so peaceful here,” Alex sighed. Peace was something he rather desperately wanted at the moment, something he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to find anytime soon. “I mean, I know that it’s not real, it’s…” he trailed off, the effects of the alcohol and his muddled thoughts making it impossible to put things into words.

“I know what you mean,” Noma said, rescuing him. “It’s peaceful, but it’s Lucifer’s peace. He’s paying for it.”

“Yeah.”

“This is how he likes things, modest, clean. No waste, no pollution.”

Alex thought about that for a little while. It was similar to what he had seen in his mother’s town, in New Haven, although they had more technology there, things like their satellite radios and the refinery. 

And yet it wasn’t completely dissimilar. “Is this what he wants? Is this want Lucifer wants to turn the world into?”

“I think so.”

He looked around some more. In the distance, he could see a man and a dog on a hill, the dog herding a dozen or so sheep according to the whistles of his master. Closer, he could hear the squawking of a pair of geese, disturbed by a couple of giggling little boys. A mother called her daughter in to help with the lunch dishes, a teenager walked a trio of goats down the center of the road with the help of a long stick.

If he hadn’t been able to feel the eight-balls, to know that they were just outside the gates, it would have been perfect. It would have been Eden once again.

Was that Lucifer’s plan?

They mounted the steps outside a small but well-kept house at the end of the lane. Chairs sat on the deck, inviting friendly chats over lemonade and long discussions late into the summer nights. 

Inside, the house was clean and bright but the air was just a bit musty, as if it hadn’t moved recently. Noma leaned over and opened one of the windows. “Sorry, no one’s been home for a while. It’ll air out quick.”

“What happened to the people that lived here?” Alex asked. “Eight-balls?”

Noma shook her head sadly, opening another window. “We don’t know. Laurel just…disappeared. We think she took a truck, one was gone, but nobody knows for sure.” She sighed. “I’m worried about her, she was pregnant.”

Alex closed his eyes, frowning. He needed to concentrate, to get past the buzz of the alcohol, he needed to sort things out. “You knew her?”

“A little, not well. I liked her, though. She was – ”

“Strong.” Alex said. “Like you.”

Noma smiled. “Yeah, strong. But kind.”

“Nomes.” He watched her for a moment, watched her watching him. _God, he wished he hadn’t had that cider._ “Nomes, you really don’t know what happened to Laurel? Lucifer didn’t tell you?”

“No.” She narrowed her eyes. “But you do. You’ve talked to her; you know where she is.”

He nodded.

“And the baby? They’re safe?”

Once again, he nodded. “She’s at the Arsenal.” He paused meaningfully. “With Michael.”

Noma let out a relieved sigh, then stopped as his words sunk in. He could see her putting things together, _Laurel_ and _Michael_ and _baby_ and all the implications of the three. Her eyes grew huge. “No,” she said under her breath, “no.”

“You never knew, did you? Lucifer never told you. Just like he never told you my mom was still alive.” _Was,_ he said to himself bitterly. “He’s been keeping secrets from you.”

She flinched as if he had physically struck her. “I’m not part of his inner circle, Alex, I don’t get all the memos. He’s the five-star and I’m the grunt, he doesn’t have to tell me everything.”

Her hackles were up now, she was getting defensive and Alex knew from experience that he wasn’t going to get any further with her right now. He’d learned long ago that once Noma Banks started to dig her heels in, she was nearly impossible to get to budge. That wasn’t what he wanted to happen, he needed to be a diplomat, not a drill sergeant. Time to change tactics.

“ _I_ thought you should know.” He yawned expansively. “I’m going to fall over; we can talk about this more later. Where’s that bed?”

She pointed up the stairs, still on her guard. “First door on the left. I’ll bring you something to eat later when you wake up.”

He reached up to brush her cheek with the backs of his fingers, trying to defuse the tension. “Thank you, Nomes.”

“Don’t.” She turned her head away. “I’m not doing anything to be thankful for.” 

She left before he could see the tears of anger and frustration gathering in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I’d like to thank you all for coming along on this ride, (this…nearly…400…page…ride.) I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate the kudos, the comments and even just watching the hits go up. You are the reason that I write.
> 
> We’re getting toward the end and I really want to do this story justice. I also have made a commitment to posting something every week, but this week has been a bit insane so I am a little behind. I have only part of the chapter that I wanted to finish done so I am going to post that so as not to keep you in suspense. If I get the chance to work on more of it during the week, I will post it, but again, I don’t want to rush – lots to get accomplished here, but I don’t want to something stupid like make the mistake I made last week and post the unedited version with all the typos (ugh! Sorry about that you first readers!)
> 
> To make up for this week’s light posting, I thought I would give you a little peak into my research boards/character boards, etc. One of my favorite authors does this and I enjoy seeing the behind-the-scenes work. I’ve got the ever-popular Pinterest board, it’s not very heavily populated, but it might fill in a gap here or there for some of you. Like how big Redstone Arsenal is (yes, it’s a real place) and what people look like in my head and just who I would pick to play… 
> 
> And I found Mallory, or just about the exact spittin’ image of Mallory, in Alabama, and ten miles from the Gulf.
> 
> If you are interested in any of the other inspirations I have used for these two stories, let me know. There are definitely some songs that heavily influenced character development, especially for “Charlie,” and there is one that I am going to be playing on loop as I write the final chapter. 
> 
> Here you go, if you are interested (I think I did this right but you may have to copy and paste)
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/lizshelbourne8576/redstone-arsenal/
> 
> (Just how big it really is)  
> https://www.google.com/maps/place/Army+Material+Command+(AMC)+Headquarters/@34.6451762,-86.6618672,1252m/data=!3m1!1e3!4m8!1m2!2m1!1s4400+on+Martin+Road+redstone+arsenal!3m4!1s0x88626dfd0b6e974d:0xcb9975314de8f884!8m2!3d34.6486498!4d-86.6597445
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/lizshelbourne8576/orions-belt/
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/lizshelbourne8576/bromley-al-aka-mallory/
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/lizshelbourne8576/gabriel-and-michael/
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/lizshelbourne8576/raphael/
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/lizshelbourne8576/lucifer/
> 
> Let me know if there is anything else that you would be interested in, I may or may not have it.  
> Stay safe, and thanks for your patience  
> Liz


	12. Chapter 11 Part 2

_Outside Mallory_

The angelic twins stood on the top of a low rise, less than a kilometer away from the town of Mallory. The hill provided both a clear line of sight and a possible avenue of retreat if necessary. Gabriel had chosen this place on his very first survey trip to the area, before he had been distracted…before he had found Raphael. Nevertheless, it was a good tactical location, adhering to his brother’s axiom of “the highest perch.”

They watched as the troops from New Haven collected around them in trucks and buses and armored vehicles filled to capacity. There was a palpable sense of anxiety in the air, a frisson of electricity that grated at the nerves and set tempers on edge as men and women prepared for a campaign that could very likely be their last. The Wildcats took up position on and around the hilltop, each in their own place, preparing themselves and their equipment according to the plan that had been drawn up by Jenkins and his staff.

Michael could sense the tension as well, although to him it was just another one of the necessary steps that led to battle. Soon the fighting would begin and all that tension would be released, an explosion of human kinetic force. The fuse was already lit, it was only a matter of how long that fuse turned out to be.

Gabriel began pacing and Michael put out a hand to stop him. “Brother, what have I taught you – hold your energy for the battle.”

“I don’t like it,” Gabriel snapped back. He pointed toward the town. “Alex has been down there by himself for far too long. The boy was foolish to go alone.”

“We’ve had this discussion – Alex wants to put an end to this. He has a destiny, you know that as well as I.”

“But he shouldn’t _be_ alone. He needs guidance. He’s still headstrong, impulsive, too eager to follow his heart.”

“Sounds suspiciously like his father.”

A low growl rumbled through Gabriel’s chest. That was exactly what he was afraid of, that Alex _would_ be like his father, that Lucifer would find some way to deceive the boy and Alex would follow his heart and not his head and take the world down with him.

“We’re at a disadvantage, Michael. After all this time, we still don’t know Lucifer’s end game. It’s all well and good to bring an army to his doorstep, but we don’t know what he has inside the keep.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Mallory sat below them, the small town deceptively quaint and rustic, painted by the last rose-gold light of the setting sun. The bright flames still reached into the sky from the bonfire in front of the church, sending that building into stark relief. Michael stared down at it. “We’ve assumed that Mallory is Lucifer’s stronghold. Perhaps it was more than that.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been thinking about a number of things – about Mallory, about Vega and New Haven and even New Delphi. I’ve been analyzing the effects of the War.”

“The effects are fairly plain to see.” Gabriel’s voice was abruptly flat, weary with guilt. “I caused the deaths of six billion humans.”

Only a year ago, Gabriel would have taken such pride in the fact. Now, it was a nearly crushing weight. There was nothing Michael could do or say – that was a burden his brother would carry with him for the rest of his life. 

Instead Michael continued on with his train of thought. “You’ve seen Mallory, seen what life was like there. Simple, uncomplicated by technology. They feared one thing and Lucifer provided a shield against it.” He turned toward his twin. “What if it was a test?”

“What are you talking about, test?”

“What if Lucifer was using Mallory as a kind of experiment? Using the town to see if the humans would accept his intrusion into their lives?”

“How do you mean?”

“He manipulated them through the Prophet and the fire that keeps out the eight-balls. Lucifer offered them protection as long as they followed his rules.”

Gabriel’s eyes flashed with understanding. “He wanted to see if they would become dependent upon him if he became their guardian, their protector.”

“Yes,” Michael agreed. “They were so willing that they paid for his protection with sacrifice.”

“Rather old school, if I do say, taking a page from Father’s book. The original one, I mean.” Gabriel was silent for a few seconds. “I think you may be onto something, Michael. If his little scheme worked in Mallory, then he could implement it in the rest of the world.”

“Our brother plays the long game. He _is_ implementing it. The Extermination War decimated more than just the population, it destroyed much of the knowledge of the last century. Vega, Helena, both are struggling with what they have left of technology and their societies have suffered. The human communities that are truly succeeding have gone back to a simpler, agrarian state.”

“New Haven,” Gabriel whispered, as if afraid to say it aloud.

Michael understood his brother’s reaction. “The Wildcats’ success, perhaps even their ability to stay hidden, may have less to do with their skill and more to do with our brother’s plans.”

“Don’t tell that to Jenkins, he’ll run you through for such blasphemy.”

“It’s only a theory. The important thing is that the experiment in Mallory worked. The people there became dependent on Lucifer, on his fire, for their protection. When the fire went out, the eight-balls attacked. They prayed for the fire to return; they would do _anything_ to rekindle that flame. Lucifer controlled them through their fear and they, in turn, worshipped him and sacrificed to him. If he could do this on a grander scale…” It seemed sacrilege to even finish the thought.

Gabriel didn’t feel that way. “He would be like Father.”

“Exactly.”

“Then this battle – is he really going to throw our angel brethren at mankind in a final war just to swoop in at the end and prove he’s the hero of humanity? I’m sorry, Michael, that doesn’t read very well, given the casting.”

“Raphael said that Lucifer talked of balance. I think Lucifer sees the balance of _one_ \- I think he’s promised the lower angels the very thing that he promised the people of Mallory – peace. New Delphi was the same experiment, but with the other side of the coin.”

Gabriel let out a low snort of disgust. “Lyrae did rather go on and on about freeing the lower angels from their so-called bondage, he saw himself as _their_ chosen one, _their_ savior. And we know that he was working with Lucifer.”

Michael’s dark eyes scanned over the land and out to the sea not far beyond. “We’ve come to a crossroads. There can be no peace as things are now. Lucifer sees a final extermination as the only answer. If he has his way, there will be angels or there will humans, and he will have dominion over them all.”

“I’m not bowing down to our big brother, Michael. I can’t see Jenkins or the rest of the Wildcats doing it, either.”

“Nor am I. I still believe that Alex is the answer to all of this. He is the Chosen One. We must give him the chance to do what must be done,” Michael rested his hands on his two swords, “whatever that is.”

Gabriel looked back at Michael then out to the shadowy town below. Somewhere out there in the darkness, Alex might already be facing Lucifer. The battle might already have begun and no one would know.

“I’ll say it again,” he growled into the gathering darkness, “I don’t like it.”

The sound started just after sundown, a hissing murmur, a dull susurrus that filled the night air. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, from the forest and the fields and the far edge of the town.

Jenkins arrived to what had become an unofficial lookout point at the edge of the hill. He climbed out of an old Humvee to greet the two archangels, accompanied by a pair of heavily armed soldiers and a radioman.

“We got word they were on the move,” the commander said, pulling out a pair of night-vision binoculars. “Can you see them?”

With their excellent eyesight, the angels had seen the eight-balls long before. The horde had erupted from the tree line, from the pastures, running and scrabbling along the ground like an enormous swarm of termites, ready to destroy anything in their path. 

They all watched in morbid fascination as the army of the possessed formed a ragged ring around the town. Still held at bay by the bonfire, they continued on toward the Wildcat encampment, finally collecting at the base of the hill, a seething mass of almost-humanity that pulsed with malevolent intent. It had taken little more than an hour.

Jenkins once more held the binoculars up to his eyes. “There’s got to be a few thousand of them.”

“Almost five,” Michael corrected. He’d been estimating enemy troop strength for a very long time.

The Wildcat commander let out a long breath. “Well, nothing worthwhile is ever easy.”

After a time, a pair of lights appeared, twin torches that separated from the throng and made their way up the rise. As they neared, it became evident that they were accompanied by a white flag of truce.

“I can’t say I saw that coming,” Gabriel said sardonically. “Do you think they’ve decided to surrender already?”

Jenkins’ teeth showed in the darkness. “We did bring the big guns. Everyone respects a howitzer.”

Michael felt his face twitch up in a shadow of a smile. A bit of swagger was good before battle, especially from those giving the orders. “Shall we go see what they want?”

After a quick discussion with the rest of the Wildcats command staff, the two archangels and Jenkins walked slowly down the hill, the plan to meet the other trio closer to their own ground than that of the eight-balls. Snipers knelt on the hilltop, armed and ready, much of the artillery primed to fire at a moment’s notice.

Mouse was less than pleased.

The two groups stopped five yards away from each other. Jenkins took quick stock of the other contingent – a pale but surprisingly intelligent-looking eight-ball sported the white flag while both a dark man with a wide brimmed hat and another man with a shock of unruly hair carried the torches.

“Janeck.” Gabriel spat out the name as if it were a piece of spoiled meat. “Why am I not surprised you’d throw in with this miserable lot?”

“You gave me little enough choice, Gabriel!” the wild-haired man called back. “You were willing to kill us all in your quest for revenge. Now you’ve turned your back on your own kind, you’ve taken up with humans. You never cared for any of us.”

“Seriously? Pathos?” Gabriel threw up his hands. “Did you ever wonder why you were my herald and not some other, loftier position in my army, Janeck? It was because you’ve didn’t have the intelligence to fight your way out of a paper sack.” He turned toward the Prophet. “Please tell us you’ve made this wretched excuse for a higher angel your general. The war is all but over if you have.”

The Prophet stepped forward. “Enough of this banter. I’ve come to parley.”

Michael noticed the singular nature of his statement – he was speaking for Lucifer, not for the rest of the eight-balls. Still, it was worth hearing what he had to say. “State your terms.”

“I told you before, I am a man of order. So is your brother. This,” he spread his arm out to take in the field of eight-balls, the army poised up upon the hill, “this is chaos about to commence.”

“Lucifer has eight-balls ready to attack Vega, Helena and New Haven,” Michael countered. “This is not the only place where chaos will reign.”

For a brief second, the Prophet’s head tipped to the side. His eyes closed and his face took on the sublimity that announced his communion with his master. Then he recovered and smiled. “Your information is correct, but limited. You are missing the rest of the world. There are an additional twenty-seven locations that will be under siege if we do not come to an agreement.”

 _Twenty-seven_. Michael was dumbfounded. He had no idea there were that many humans left on the planet. He looked to Gabriel, to Jenkins and they mirrored his shock.

“You’re lying,” Jenkins sputtered. “They’re can’t be that many people left, we would know.”

“Why _should_ you know?” The Prophet turned on him with gently rebuke. “One of humanity’s greatest sins is hubris. I think that should we start over, we should need to attend to that.” He lifted his hand and started to count off on his fingers. “Seven encampments on the continent of Africa – most small, but thriving. Five in Asia, one quite large now. Another in New Zealand, doing rather well. Excellent farmland, you know.”

“Enough,” Michael called out. He understood, understood only too well. His guess had been right – somehow Lucifer had aided New Haven in their attempts at concealment over the decades. The same had been done for all of these other groups, that was why he and Gabriel had never found them.

The important thing was that there were more humans, possible hundreds of thousands more, and all of them immediately at risk. The stakes had just gotten exponentially higher. “What are your terms?”

“Your brother would like to reunite his family. All of his family.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “It’s been a long time since we were the type to sit down for dinner together.”

“True, but with our Father gone, perhaps it is time to be together, not apart. Step aside, you and Michael, step away from this battle. Lucifer will not hold your past indiscretions against you. Bring Raphael. Bring your woman with you, Michael, bring your child. You’ll be a family again.”

“How wonderfully magnanimous of Big Brother,” Gabriel said even as his stomach twisted inside. After all, he’d started a war to do just that, to keep his family together, even though it had done the exact opposite.

Michael, however, was quiet. His heart had stopped when the Prophet had talked about Laurel, about the baby, and he had to consciously tell himself to keep breathing. He knew only too well why Lucifer wanted them. “What about the humans?” he asked softly. “What about the war?”

“The war is inevitable.” The Prophet almost sounded sad.

“You’re not offering peace then,” Gabriel asked, “only amnesty for our family?”

“The situation has reached its tipping point, it can no longer be stopped. I’m sorry, it is out of my hands.”

Michael’s gaze went from Jenkins, wide-eyed with concern, to Gabriel, already looking off to the side in annoyance. He knew his twin’s thoughts on the matter already and he was sure he could guess Jenkins’. “Please tell our brother, thank you for the offer but we pass.”

The Prophet frowned. “Are you sure about this? Do you like your chances?” He peered back obviously at the eight-balls massed behind him. “Yours is a fool’s sacrifice, Michael. You cannot win this time.”

Michael glanced at the Wildcat commander and saw the combination of relief and resolve on his weathered face. Then he looked over at Gabriel. His brother stood tall, his chest thrust out, his head tipped up with an air of youthful insolence reminiscent of his son, Alex.

The archangel gave a tiny but impertinent shrug. “I still have faith.”

_Vega_

The commander rubbed at one eye while he simultaneously reached for the radio next to his bed. “Holt,” he said, trying not to mumble even though he had been sound asleep only a few seconds before. Mumbling was less-than-professional, no matter what the time of day.

“Sorry to wake you, sir,” a young female voice called. “Colonel McAdams asked that I contact you and tell you that drones picked up multiple targets inbound. About three hours out, headed this way.”

Holt switched on the lamp and checked the wrist watch that lay on the table. Not quite 0230. “How many?”

“A lot, sir.” There was a certain amount of fear in the woman’s voice but she was holding it together. Probably one of the new Vega recruits still adjusting to her role. “I mean, um, estimated 40 to 50, hard to say. They’re big, like buses or semis. Heat signature is huge.”

“Shit.” Holt ran his hand over his face and blew out a breath. That answered a whole lot of questions he didn’t want answered, like what had happened to the reserve fuel in New Delphi and where all the eight-balls had gone.

Busloads of eight-balls. _Shit_.

“Tell McAdams I’ll meet him in C&C in fifteen. In the meantime, get a hold of both New Haven and Helena and tell them to be on the lookout for the same thing. I doubt we’re going to be the only ones to get this lucky.”

Then Holt got up and walked into the bathroom. He had ten minutes to get what might possibly be the last hot shower of his life, and he be damned if he wasn’t going to enjoy it.

_Las Vegas_

_The doorbell rang throughout the house, an old-fashioned chime that sounded like something from a gothic horror movie. “I got it, Mom,” Alex called, racing down the stairs from the second floor. He’d always hated the sound; his parents had promised that they would change it when they had bought the big house outside of Las Vegas but they had never gotten around to it. At least today it meant something good._

_He opened the heavy oak door to find the friendly bearded face of his neighbor. “Uncle Jeep!”_

_“How you doin’, kiddo!” The wiry man wrapped the boy in a tight hug. “Twelve years old, I can hardly believe it. You were barely walking a couple weeks ago.”_

_Alex blushed and hugged him back – Jeep gave the best hugs (next to his mom, of course). Jeep wasn’t really an uncle, but Alex’s neighbor had become part of the family almost as soon as they had met and quickly earned the honorary title. “Where’s Aunt Sarah?”_

_“She had a shift at the hospital, sends her regrets. Here, this is from her.” Jeep squeezed the boy tight again. “I promised I would give you that.” He stepped back. “Can’t forget this.” Reaching down, he picked up a large, round, awkwardly wrapped package about ten inches wide. A wide grin split his face. “Bet you can’t figure out what it is?”_

_“Will it bounce?”_

_“I sure hope so or I got ripped off!”_

_Alex took the gift and was just about to close the door when he noticed another figure coming up the walk. Tall, thin and dark, it could only be one person._

_“Uncle Michael!”_

_“Alex. Happy birthday.”_

_Michael wasn’t someone you normally hugged; Alex knew that. Nonetheless, the sight of his uncle filled him with a feeling of warmth that he didn’t get from his other relatives. Michael was special._

_He closed the door behind the two men. “Mom’s in the kitchen, Dad’s in the other room finishing the tree.”_

_“Let’s go see that Christmas tree,” Jeep said. “Your dad really knows how to pick them. How big is it this year?”_

_“Twelve feet,” Alex answered, leading them toward the back of the house._

_“And it was eleven feet last year.” Jeep traded a quick look with Michael. “Your dad’s going to have to punch a hole in the ceiling before you can drink.”_

_Alex wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but he smiled anyway. Grownups sometimes said weird things._

_They had dinner at the big table in the dining room with a table cloth and china and even the fancy glasses. It was Alex’s birthday – well, it was Alex’s birthday dinner, his real birthday was Christmas so they always celebrated the day before. They would drive over to California to see Grandma and Aunt Crystal and his cousins tomorrow and have Christmas with them, but tonight, tonight was all about him._

_He had wanted spaghetti with lots of meatballs, so that’s what they had. Mom had made the sauce from scratch, just the way he liked it, not too spicy, and the meatballs were tiny so he could pop them right in his mouth without cutting them up. There was cheesy bread and green beans with almonds and salad with croutons and little red tomatoes, everything he loved._

_For dessert they had Birthday Pie. Other kids had Birthday Cake but he had Birthday Pie and always had. He wasn’t sure why; it was just what his family did. His mom made the absolute BEST pies so it was always awesome and he could get cake at anyone’s birthday party, pie made it special._

_This year it was a chocolate-peanut-butter-caramel-candy pie, one of his all-time favorites. When his mom brought it out, he practically started drooling and his dad called him on it. He was laughing so hard that it was difficult to blow out the twelve candles, but he finally got it done. He managed to eat two slices, too, even with all the spaghetti he had had._

_Being twelve was awesome._

_After dinner they went into the room with the giant tree and the adults talked for a little while his mom cleared up dinner. Alex didn’t have to help today, it was his birthday so he didn’t have to do chores, but the grown-up talk was boring so he brought in dishes for her anyway._

_“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said, taking the platter away from him and dunking it in the soapy water in the sink. “Is that the last one?”_

_“Yeah, I think so.” He glanced back at the dining room. There were only the crystal goblets left on the table and he wasn’t allowed to touch those yet. He watched her for a moment while she quickly but efficiently washed the china platter and set it out to dry. Her hands were large and strong, not the delicate hands that some women had. He knew she could do things that other women didn’t do – she went to the gun range every once in a while, but she was also an amateur artist – there were a few of her paintings scattered around the house. She did a lot of things beyond her job as a therapist. His dad said that she was going to be an actress before they had met, but that she had decided to give that up to be a mom._

_Alex thought about that for a little while. His mom had given up her dreams to be his mom. That was a lot. And she was a really good mom._

_Impulsively, he wrapped his arms around her middle and hugged her tight. “I love you, Mom.”_

_"I love you, too,” she laughed, trying to hug him back with her still-soapy hands without getting him wet. “What brought that on? I thought you were twelve now, you’re supposed to be all mature and distant, aren’t you?”_

_There was a tickle in the back of his throat and his eyes stung a little. He shook his head and said nothing, hugging her a little tighter._

_She kissed the top of his head. “I will always love you, no matter what. Remember that.”_

_He nodded, still silent._

_“Okay, then.” She held him out at arm’s length, her green eyes sparkling a bit more than usual. “Enough of this mushy talk, let’s go open some presents.”_

_The Christmas tree this year was HUGE. They had gone as a family to pick it out, going to three different lots to find the perfect tree. Perfection was a big thing to Alex’s father, but the whole trip had been fun instead of stressful. His mom had brought along cookies and had played Christmas carols on the car radio and made them all sing which was hilarious because his dad HATED singing even though he had a really nice voice._

_Now the tree was all decorated and it was really pretty, covered in a million tiny white lights – his mom called them “fairy lights” – and gold and silver ribbon and all sorts of ornaments, some of them really expensive and some of them handmade. On the top there was an ornate metal ball, like a cross between a snowflake and a star. Everybody else had store-bought angels on their trees, Alex had the Snow-Star. All his friends were jealous._

_The pile of presents on the coffee table in front of the tree was not as remarkable. Alex had never been inundated with gifts, but he knew that everything he received would be thoughtful and well chosen. He really never wanted for anything – his father had a good job as a security consultant in Las Vegas, his mother was a part-time therapist. Their house was large but not ostentatious, they had two cars and had talked about getting another for Alex to use when he could drive. Alex had a bike and skateboard and a membership at the local pool. He went to a good school and had plenty of friends._

_The people seated on the couches in the room here, these were his favorites, these were the people he wanted to spend his birthday with. It was a little odd, he knew, but he got on better with adults sometimes. Other than his best friend, Ethan, these were the people that seemed to understand him best, to see beyond the child to the person inside. Jeep let him help with his cars and Michael was…well, Michael knew things, Michael was just cool. Michael treated him like an adult. He knew he was lucky to have them._

_“Which one do you want to open first?” his mom asked._

_“I don’t know,” Jeep offered, staring at the round present at the center of the table. “There’s no knowing what any of them are.”_

_They all laughed and Alex picked up the bulky package. It was a quick couple of seconds before the wrapping paper was torn off and he was holding a new basketball. “Wow, weird,” he grinned. “I would have never guessed this was inside. Thanks.”_

_Jeep quickly grabbed the ball out of his hands and feigned a shooting motion. “That other one you had was like a rock. I put a new net on the backboard on the garage yesterday, I thought maybe we could have a game of two-on-two with you and your dad and your uncle later.”_

_Michael gave an eloquent half-nod. “If you want to lose.” He picked up a small rectangle from the table and handed it to Alex. “This is from me.”_

_Alex ripped at the paper to find a white box, almost like a large jewelry box, and he quickly pulled off the top. Inside, he saw a long piece of metal, tinted a lustrous blue. He looked up at his uncle. “Is this…Is this a knife?”_

_“Yes. Your parents feel that you are old enough. I thought it was something you could use. I had your father make it.”_

_Alex looked from Michael to his parents wide-eyed. It was more than a gift; it was an affirmation of their trust in him._

_He pulled the knife out, turning it over to look at it. It was, of course, exquisite, his father would do nothing else. Carefully, he extended the blade, then picked up a piece of gift wrap and sliced down. It slit through the paper like running through water._

_"Thank you,” he said, “thank you so much. It’s beautiful.”_

_His mother handed him an envelope. “You know you can’t take that to school.”_

_He rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mom, I know that. I’m not dumb.”_

_“Ok. Just making sure. That’s from me, then.”_

_He used the knife to slit open the envelope, then carefully closed it up and replaced it in the box, setting it back on the table. His eyes lingered on it a little longer. A knife, his own knife!_

_Inside the envelope were two thin strips of paper. He read them, frowning._

_His mother smiled. “They’re tickets, sweetheart. Tickets to a performance. You and I are going to drive out to Los Angeles and we’re going to go out to dinner at a nice restaurant and then we’re going to see a play. Professional theater, not the school plays we’ve been going to. The real deal.”_

_Alex was a little bit stunned. Only a few minutes ago he had been thinking about this, about the sacrifice his mom had made for him, and now she was inviting him into that world. “Uh, wow. That’s sounds awesome.”_

_“You’ll have to wear your suit.”_

_He rolled his eyes again. “Okay, maybe not so awesome.” That brought out another round of laughter._

_There were two gifts left on the table, two boxes both wrapped in solid blue paper and tied with a white bow._

_“Gabriel.” His mom looked up his father standing in the corner. “Your turn.”_

_His arms crossed sternly, his father nodded toward the boxes on the table. “Go ahead, Alex.”_

_His father had been unusually quiet all day, not his typical joking-around self. He did this every once in a while, days where he would be – what did his mother call it? – introspective. If Alex did it, it was moody, but when his father did it, it was introspective._

_Alex sat down on the floor in front of the table and picked up the first box. It was shaped like a shirt box but heavier, and when he shook it, it thumped inside. While everyone watched, he tore at the ribbon and wrapping and threw them to the side._

_He pulled the top off the box and peeled back the tissue. Underneath, coiled like a snake, lay a brown belt with a brass buckle._

_But not just any belt. Alex felt his face splitting into a wide grin as he glanced over at his Uncle Michael, at the black belt that he wore on his dark jeans, the belt that he had so admired, covered in an intricate design that could only be appreciated up close. It had taken his father two weeks to do._

_And now Alex had his own._

_He pulled it out of the box, letting the leather unroll before his eyes as he held it aloft. An inch and a half wide, there was a complex Celtic knot pattern worked into the leather that stretched from one end to the other, never ending, twisting and turning upon itself, only to return and start again. It was an artistic marvel, an engineering nightmare, and it was beautiful._

_“Oh, Gabriel,” his mom whispered, walking over to her husband and wrapping her arms around his waist. “It’s gorgeous.”_

_Alex stared at the belt, dumbfounded. He’d never seen anything like it. The brass buckle – his father had made that, too, and it was actually part of the knot, continuing the unbroken line, the never-ending pattern. “Dad, it’s…” He didn’t know what to say._

_“Try the damn thing on,” his father growled. “Make sure it fits.”_

_Of course, it fit. It fit perfectly, with room to grow. Alex knew he would have it for years to come. “What’s in the other one?” He reached down to pick it up but it was heavier, much heavier._

_“That’s for you to decide.” His father always was good for a cryptic answer._

_The box inside the wrapping was larger and made of wood, not cardboard, and the cover slid off rather than lifted – it had to be left over from something old. Inside, it was filled with curly-cue wood shavings. Alex glanced up at his father again, but only received a solemn gaze._

_He pulled some of the stuffing out, laying it on the table, then pulled out more. His eyes opened wide as he reached into the box and pulled out…a hammer._

_Not just any hammer, a forging hammer. Like his father used, maybe a little lighter, with a sturdy metal head and strong wood handle._

_Alex lifted it, feeling the weight of it in his hand, the pull of it against his forearm. It was heavy but not awkward. It had a sense of power, of strength, yet still had balance and control._

_This was why his dad had been so quiet all day long. The forge his father had built behind the house was his refuge, his place of solitude and creativity, where he went to get away from the noise and bustle of work, the day-to-day annoyance of clients. He made amazing things there – knives and swords and armor and decorative pieces of all sorts – he’d made the Snow-Star when Alex was just a baby. His Uncle Michael said that Gabriel was the best swordsmith in the country, maybe even the world. Sometimes, he would take commission for items worth tens of thousands of dollars. Mostly, however, he made personal items, tributes and gifts._

_He certainly didn’t do it for the money. He was an artist…and he worked alone._

_The hammer was a gift. More than that, it was an invitation. His dad was inviting Alex to work with him._

_Alex glanced up again, saw his parents standing arm in arm. Of all of his friends’ parents, he’d never seen a couple that seemed so perfect for each other, so constant, so deeply in love. Sure, they squabbled every once in a while, but they made up in almost nauseatingly cute ways. They were so supportive of each other, that was what really struck him. Even now, his mom held on to his dad like she was trying to hug away his nerves, because he was nervous, Alex could see that. He was nervous that Alex wouldn’t see the gift for what it was._

_Very carefully, he placed the hammer back in the wooden box and walked over to his parents. They both watched him with wary eyes. Alex suddenly felt both older and younger than his twelve years, like he had the responsibility of the whole world on his shoulders when all he wanted to do was to be held._

_He looked up at his father – it wasn’t nearly as far as it had been just a few months ago – and tried to talk, but the words got stuck in his throat. He felt that same stupid tickle again, that same burning in the corner of his eyes. God, he hated crying, he was nearly a teenager, he shouldn’t be crying. He nodded silently, trying to smile and ending up with some kind of goofy grimace instead. He nodded again, more vehemently, trying to get across the words that simply would not come out of his mouth._

_His dad’s big hand reached behind his head and pulled him close and Alex buried himself into his strong chest. He felt his mom’s arm curve around him, felt them both holding him so tight that he thought that his heart would burst from the love._

_His family was awesome._

_Mallory_

Alex woke slowly, relishing the feel of the freshly-washed cotton sheets, the calming weight of the feather duvet. The dream had been unexpected, comforting instead of painful, so different from the nightmares that so often haunted his sleep. His semi-conscious mind scrolled through the memory of it before it disappeared like most of his dreams, gossamer thoughts that drifted away at morning’s light, 

No, this was different. He could still feel the warmth of his mother’s arms, still feel Jeep’s pure affection, Michael’s quiet devotion, still feel the pride and love of his father, Gabriel. The anger and pain that had fueled his hatred for so long seemed to dissipate from his heart even as he gently edged toward waking. He brushed at his eyes, at the tears still caught in his lashes, and sleepily rolled onto his side.

An old-fashioned oil lamp sat on the table next to the bed, its wick turned down so that it cast the gentlest glow over the corner of the room. In the pale light, he could see the outline of Noma’s dark head, resting on her arms atop the side of the bed. He wondered to himself how long had she been sitting on the floor, waiting for him to awaken.

His fingers brushed lightly over her hair. It was down now, a curtain of chocolate brown silk falling over her face. “Nomes,” he whispered.

Her head jerked up. “Oh, shit, you’re awake.” She wiped at her face, at the dampness that shone on her cheeks even in the dimness of the room. 

“Yeah.” He propped his head with his arm and peered at her through sleepy eyes. “What time is it?”

“About 0300. I guess you were tired.”

He let out a little ironic snort. “Long week. Were you here all night?”

“No,” she answered defensively even though he knew it wasn’t true. 

They both fell silent, so many things that needed to be said trapped inside. Alex reached over and brushed at her cheek. “You were crying.”

“Yeah, well you were too.” Her tone was angry, embarrassed.

“Nomes, hey.” He held out his hand, palm up. “Come ‘ere.” She dropped her head, shaking it morosely. He was insistent. “Noma. Come up here. Please, just…just be next to me.”

For a few seconds, it looked as if she might start crying again or perhaps turn around and leave. Then she kicked off her boots, shrugged out of her jacket and climbed onto the bed. Alex stretched out an arm and she curled into his bare shoulder, wrapping her arm around his chest over the covers. 

They lay like that for some time. Alex closed his eyes and mindlessly ran his hand down the length of her hair, an action oddly soothing to both of them. He could feel the warmth of her cheek against his skin, the whisper of her breath, the gentle weight of her arm across his body and it filled a place that had been empty inside him for far too long. 

Noma finally broke the silence, her voice just above a whisper. “How did we end up here?” 

It took him a moment to respond. “I drove. I’m pretty sure you flew.”

She slapped him playfully and laughed but her laughter held a note of sadness. “You know what I mean.”

“This is where I’m supposed to be, where I was always going to end up. It’s my destiny, I’m the Chosen One.”

“Yes, of course,” she scooted herself up to look at him, “but you could have come with everyone else, with Michael and Gabriel and all the rest. You would have been safer there. Lucifer knows they’re coming, but you would have been safer. Why did you come alone?”

Alex opened his eyes, the shadow of a smile crossing his face. “You don’t know?”

She let out a frustrated sigh and lay back down on his bare shoulder again. “You’ve been spending way too much time with Michael. No, I have no idea, don’t be so damn cryptic.”

Again, he waited before he spoke, staring out at some spot beyond the ceiling. “I’ve learned a lot in the last few weeks, a lot about stuff, about me. About…life. What’s important, what’s not.”

“I don’t know if you noticed this, Lannon, but you’re still being cryptic. And infuriating.”

For as long as he had known her, Noma Banks had hidden her fears behind a façade of brashness and annoyance. There were not many things that worried her, but if they did, she would face them in one of two ways – with grandiose bravado or legendary exasperation. Right now, it would seem, he rated the exasperation. In the darkness, Alex’s smile broadened. 

“I love you,” he said quietly.

“What?” Her head popped up off his shoulder again and she stared up at him.

“I love you,” he repeated. “I think I’ve always loved you, since the first time I saw you at Basic, when you pinned Ethan to the mat in hand-to-hand.”

“I…uh…” Her forehead wrinkled up and she made little frustrated noises. “Ethan was even skinnier then than he is now, anybody could pin him.”

“True,” he allowed, “but you’re avoiding the subject.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her back to him. It was easier to talk if she didn’t have to see him, didn’t have to into those blue eyes that had somehow become much more sincere, more intense, even in the dusky light. He’d never been like this before, never been so direct. _He’d_ been the one to avoid talking, dancing around a subject, insinuating what he meant.

Now, Alex was _different_. 

“It’s just…difficult,” she said. “I mean with you and Claire…I thought you two were destined for each other, you were going to be a _family_. You were devastated when she died.”

“I was.” The sorrow was evident in his voice, a pain that would never really go away. “I loved her, too. I thought she was going to be my future. That doesn’t mean I ever stopped loving you.” He reached for her hand and ran his fingers over the back of it, a soft, tender caress. “You’re the one that left me. Twice.”

“I explained that, I didn’t have a choice.”

“Yeah, the first time.” His voice was still calm, without bitterness, as soothing as his gentle touch. “You’ve always watched out for me, haven’t you?”

The dim room filled with an awkward hush.

“You’re doing it again,” he said.

Without warning, Noma stood and walked to the other side of the room. It was all the answer he needed.

“It’s the same deal, isn’t it?” he said. “You didn’t have a choice to leave. Lucifer made you leave Vega, leave me.”

Still she refused to answer.

“Nomes.” It was Alex’s turn to sit up in the bed. “Tell me.”

She wouldn’t turn around, wouldn’t face him. “I saw the Prophet at the house outside of New Delphi after….” Her shoulders curled forward as if she was going through the whole experience again, feeling the terrible pain of the loss of her wings. “He…he wanted me to bring you here. I told Michael but nothing came of it.” Her words came out haltingly, angrily, as if she dragged them out by force of will. “Then Raphael came to see me…I hadn’t seen her since before the war. She told me that if I couldn’t get you to come here, then I should come by myself. She said things…I got the feeling that Lucifer wanted us apart...I don’t know why, but I felt like if I didn’t, if I didn’t come to Mallory…”

“Lucifer would do something to me instead of to you.”

“Yeah.”

“So…the whole things with your wings…”

She spun on him now, her chin jutting out, the exasperation once more evident. “I’m not stupid, Alex. If I’m going to give up the most important thing in the world to me, I’m going to get something out of the deal.” 

“I’m more important that your wings?”

“Do you have to ask, dumbass? I ripped them off for you once!”

Alex gaped at her in a kind of thunderstruck realization. He climbed out of the bed and stood before her. “I’m sorry. I’m the idiot, Nomes. I should never have doubted you.” 

“You were _supposed_ to. That was part of Lucifer’s plan.”

“I know, and I fell for it. We all fell for it. I thought you’d gone crazy, that losing your wings had driven you nuts.”

“Maybe I did, a little, I don’t know.” She threw her hands up in the air and let them fall, letting out a long, exasperated breath. “Lucifer played me, Alex. I never meant to hurt you. I was trying to keep you safe, but I got played and now you’re here. I’m sorry, I’m sorry for everything.”

“Aw, Nomes,” he sighed. “We all got played.”

“I took a vow, Alex. I promised to protect you. I promised to protect the Chosen One, and I can’t do it anymore. I can’t protect you from what’s coming.”

He casually enfolded her in arms. “Thank you for watching over me all these years.” There was a certain finality in his voice. “But you don’t need to be my protector anymore.”

Her hand reached up and she ran her finger down the side of his face. She shook her head, her brow knit in concern. “Alex…you’re different. You’ve changed.”

“You’ve known me since I was two days old. Which is…kinda weird, you know. Considering…” He wagged his eyebrows suggestively.

Noma laughed softly. That was one thing that hadn’t changed – Alex could never stay serious for too long. “No, I mean – the old Alex would have been ranting about how unfair this all is. You’re more confident, more sure of yourself. Less…I don’t know, less angry.”

“I guess I am.” He held one arm out, showing her the tattoos. “I know what these mean now, how to use them. I know what the power is, how to control it. I’m ready to fight Lucifer. Who knows,” he said lightly, “maybe I’ll even win.”

“This isn’t a joke, Alex!” She struggled to get out of his embrace but he held her fast. “I don’t _want_ you to fight Lucifer! I…I don’t want to lose you again.”

“And I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s death! I have to do this.” He reached up and gently took her head between his hands. “Besides, you’re never going to lose me. I’m always going to be with you.”

“Damn it, Alex, don’t be this way. Don’t be so noble, don’t be so…good. I’m not worthy.” 

She tried to turn away but he held her. He held her and he kissed her, softly, lightly, as if she were made of glass and the slightest pressure would shatter her. He could feel her lip tremble, her breath hitch. He pulled her closer and kissed her again. “I love you.”

She covered his hands with her own. “That doesn’t make it okay, that doesn’t fix things, Alex,” she protested. “Don’t you get it? Lucifer is going to kill you.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Before she could say another word, he brushed her lips with his. Their eyes met and she could feel the intensity of his gaze, as if he was trying to see to the very center of her soul. “All that matters right now,” he whispered, “is that you know how much I love you.”

“I…I love you, too.” She breathed the words into him, a mix of sorrow and fear and anger and devotion, an admission she had long feared to make aloud. 

His arms were strong and caring as he wrapped them around her protectively. He was the guardian and she was the guarded, a strange but natural reversal of the roles they had lived to this point. She pressed against him, her head tucked up into his shoulder, using his strength to shield against the truths she did not want to admit, the reality that would too soon break their embrace. 

Alex was so very, very _alive._ Noma could feel the warmth of his skin, hear his heartbeat, feel the air rush in and out of his lungs. Her hand spread out over his bare chest, touching the strange markings that had been borne by Michael, then Jeep, then this man she so desperately adored, the blessing/curse of the Chosen One. She could feel a faint stirring of energy just below his skin, and as she touched each loop and whorl, they faintly shone in the pre-dawn shadows. Her fingertip followed the curves and lines, tracing them down from his shoulder to just above the loose pajama pants he wore, and the marks glowed and faded, a silent song of light.

The sensation was exhilarating, intoxicating. Her fingers spread out, her palms against his chest, she wanted to feel more of it, to feel the life that seem to emanate from within him, the antithesis of her anger, the only solution for her fear. Everywhere she touched the markings, they shone with the same quiet, golden glow. She turned her face up into the crook of his neck and her parted lips slid against his skin. Her breath came faster – it wasn’t enough. Her hand reached to pull his head down to hers. “Alex.” The word was a plea more than a name. 

Alex kissed her again, deeply, with a kind of slow-burning passion full of expectation and promise. The feel of her hands on him had been a kind of exquisite agony – how long had he been waiting to feel her touch again? He desperately wanted her, all of her, this remarkable woman, this _angel_.

For a split second, the merest moment, Alex had the most fleeting thought – his mother, a human, and his father, an archangel – and he thought about what that made _him_ , and what _his_ children would be, and what _their_ children would be, and what the world would be like…

He grinned. It didn’t matter, not now. His hands ran down to Noma’s waist and he lifted her into the air without warning. She giggled like a child and wrapped her legs around his hips, her hands around his neck, and she kissed him as he carried her back to the bed.

He set her down on the edge of the bed and knelt down in front of her, leaning up to kiss her mouth, her neck, her throat. His hands wandered over her shoulders, her sides, her breasts, her back, as if he had forgotten what she felt like and needed to remember all over again. Eventually he helped her pull off the t-shirt she wore and he did the same thing with his mouth, exploring with lips and tongue and teeth. 

Then he popped open the button of her jeans and slid down the zipper, slipping them down over her hips with practiced ease. She wriggled to assist – anything to help him right now. She let out little gasps of pleasure, her head back, her eyes closed as he moved his attentions further down. Clad only in a bra and panties now, her legs parted of their own accord, her back arching almost painfully. The anticipation was a kind of delicious torture.

There was an area on the inside of her thigh, quite high up, that only Alex knew about. Only he had ever found that spot, only he had ever kissed her there, gently teased her with his teeth. And now, again…

“Lannon…” she panted, her hand going to the back of his head, “…you’re driving me insane.”

He looked up at her, his blue eyes almost innocent.

_Almost._

The smile he gave her was full of so many things it was almost difficult to take in. Noma felt a flood of emotions wash over her – she was cherished, appreciated, precious and supported; he saw her as strong and sexy and capable; she was his best friend and his lover and his fellow soldier. 

She was his love.

He took her hands in his and they both moved toward the center of the bed, lying next to each other face-to-face, a strange kind of apprehension. Their desire was inevitably strong yet they both knew what would happen when those moments of bliss were over.

His eyes roamed over her face as if he was trying to memorize it for the future. “I love you,” he said again. “I love you so much.”

There it was again, the faint light, the gentle glow of the tattoos as he spoke. But now it was all of them, every single one of the markings and Noma understood. She understood Alex and his calling and her own role in it, and she laughed, a gentle sound tinted with tears she would not shed. She needed to be strong – she would _need_ to be strong. “I love you, too,” she said without hesitation and smiled back at him. 

Sitting up, she undid the clasp of her bra and tossed it to the side, then shimmied out of her panties and tossed those away, too. Rolling Alex onto his back, she climbed onto his hips. Her fingers traced over the tattoos again, causing them to kindle as she went. It was magical.

“You’re so beautiful,” Alex said, his voice husky.

“You’re only saying that because I’m sitting on top of you naked,” Noma countered even as she blushed. She never could take a compliment.

“I’m, uh, still…wearing…” He nodded toward his pajama pants even as his hands ran up her waist to cup her breasts. 

“Oh, I’ll get to those.” Her eyes gleamed wickedly.

Noma knew his markings ran from his neck to well below his beltline and she traced them all with fingers, lips and tongue, following the shapes as they wound around his body, watching them shine and fade away. It was an act of devotion as well as foreplay, for as much as there was pleasure watching Alex squirm and writhe and moan, as much as there was physical lust and desire between them both, there was pure and abiding love.

The last tattoos traced down toward his groin and she tugged the pants down so that Alex could kick them off. Her fingertips ran on either side of his abdomen, sparking the lines of lights, down toward her own spread legs, toward the heat that ran between them that could be denied no longer. He sat up suddenly, clasped her to him and rolled over. 

Noma yelped in startled delight as her head fell upon the pillow, her hair spreading out like a dark halo. 

The room grew quiet. Alex still had one arm underneath her; he pulled it out to rest on his elbows, their bodies touching, an electric hum between them. He kissed her, a long, slow, deep kiss that spoke of past and present and future, whatever that may be. Then he raised his hips and entered her, feeling her body wrap around him, her arms around his neck, her legs locked around his back. They rocked languidly together, the rhythm never forgotten, a slow dance they had perfected long ago.

Everywhere Noma’s body touched his, everywhere her skin contacted the markings, they glowed, a steady golden light like lines of fireflies that shone against her arms, her breasts, her hips. They both looked down on it and laughed.

Their tempo increased with the beating of their hearts, the rush of breath. The tattoo lights grew brighter.

Suddenly Alex stopped. “No,” he panted. “Not like this.”

“What?” Noma was horrified, everything had been so perfect. “What’s wrong?”

He caressed the side of her face. “It’s okay, don’t worry. There’s something…I think…” He smiled again, at a loss for words. Instead, he tucked one leg and gently pulled her over to the side again.

“Really, Lannon? You just want to be on the bottom?” Nonetheless she settled her legs beneath her and ran her fingers up his chest sensuously, her hips rolling against him.

He grasped at her hands. “Let me see them.”

A little half smirk played across her face as if she wasn’t willing to understand. She shook her head. 

“They’re a part of you, you said it yourself.”

Once again, her head shook and she tried to pull away, but he had her hands fast. She tried to pass it off lightly. “No, this feels good. Don’t kill the mood.”

“You’re an angel, Nomes. You’re _my_ angel. I love you and I want you as you are. No hiding. No lies.”

Her eyes grew wider and wider. “Please, Alex. Don’t make me.”

The only thing he did was to sit up, one hand gently resting on her shoulder. This was not a negotiation.

Her lower lip quivering, her face a mask of dread, Noma Banks had gone from euphoric to miserable in record time. She watched Alex’s intense blue gaze through the mist of her rapidly forming tears as she slowly rolled her shoulders back once, twice, and let loose the great feathered marks of her shame.

Alex had seen Noma’s wings before: he’d seen her black wings as she’d flown away after dropping from the Stratosphere (barely believing the sight at the time); he’d seen them as she flew away from him as they tried to trap Gabriel. He’d seen them grotesquely pinned to a wall, and then he’d watched as she’d torn herself away, torn them off of her back to save him. 

He'd seen the beauty and the horror of her black wings and the image of them was seared into his mind. 

Noma’s white wings had been a magnificent, horrible shock. Exquisite beyond belief, they were nonetheless the unmistakable hallmark of Lucifer, like a designer dress made by slave labor, a work of art marred by its provenance.

Alex looked at Noma’s wings now and gasped. They were, in a word, stunning. Prismatic black spread out from her back, shading toward a dark rainbow of blues, greens and purples while at the far edges the feathers still gleamed in lustrous, brilliant white. 

“They’re…they’re…” Words were simply not enough.

“They’re wrong!” Noma sniffed and turned away, angry at her wings, angry at him. “No one has wings like this, no one has _ever_ had wings like this. They started changing, first just a little, now this.” 

“No, they’re not wrong.” His eyes ran over them, over the darkest dark and the brightest white. “They’re _amazing!_ They’re beautiful.” He reached up and grasped her head, turning it so that she was forced to look at him. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

It was obvious from his expression that there was no pretense in his statement, no embellishment for her ego. His words had the uncompromising strength of truth tempered by the gentle flames of love and they cut her anger away like chaff.

“No one has wings like this,” Alex continued, “because no one’s been through what you’ve been through. You’re unique, nobody else is like you. And you’re _mine_.” He grinned up at her. “You’re my beautiful angel. You’re my Nomes.”

She stuck her lower lip out petulantly, trying to fake the irritation she could no longer hold onto. “You practice that speech in the shower?”

Noma, his sassy, strong, impossible, exquisitely beautiful Noma. He loved her more now than he had loved here even just an hour before, wanted her even more desperately. He pulled her to him and kissed her hard, his tongue pressing between her teeth, tangling with hers, lips warm and demanding, their breath growing faster, deeper. 

He ran a line of impatient kisses up the curve of her delicious neck. His breath was hot in her ear. “You _know_ what we practiced in the shower.”

They lay together on the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, their bodies completely spent, one of Noma’s wings over them both like a feathered blanket. Alex nuzzled the top of her head, taking in the scent of her hair, the way it felt against his lips, very human things. 

Then he ran a gentle finger along the rib of her wing near where it connected to her shoulder and she gave a soft moan of pleasure. A little like that spot on the inside of her thigh, she had told him. 

Not very human at all.

It didn’t matter, not in the least. Since Alex had found out about Gabriel being his father – heck, since he’d found out that he was the freaking _Chosen One_ – he really hadn’t been completely certain what _he_ was, human or angel or some kind of weird hybrid. It didn’t matter, just like it didn’t matter what Noma was. 

Alex was pretty sure, at the very end of it all - well, that was the whole point. It’s just that nobody else had quite gotten that far yet.

“I still don’t want you to go,” Noma said, her voice muffled by the feathers. 

“I know.”

She lifted herself up onto one elbow and pushed her hair out of her face. “When you woke up before, you had been crying. Bad dream?”

“No, not really. It was…” He broke off, struggling to find the words and he started running his fingers through her hair. “I think it was from my mom, like a message.” He could feel Noma’s body tense when he mentioned his mother.

“What did she have to say?”

“It wasn’t exactly words.” He thought again about the dream, the tenderness of his mom kissing him on his head, the warmth he saw in Michael’s eyes when he gifted him the knife, Gabriel’s anxious expression of love and pride. “It was…I think she wanted to show me what my life could have been, you know, if Lucifer hadn’t interfered.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been tough to see.”

“No, that’s just it.” He shifted a little on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling in the near darkness. “It was great, I mean, I would have loved it. Growing up with two parents, no fighting, no war, no eight-balls, it was kind of perfect.”

“It sounds like it.” She paused, unsure. “Was I in it?”

Alex laughed. “No, but Ethan was. He was my best friend.”

“That guy’s like a bad rash.”

“Yeah, a bad rash.” It was a joke the three of them had often used. “Can’t get rid of him even in an alternate universe.” Alex was silent for a few moments. “I think you would have been there eventually.”

“What do you mean?”

He turned to look at her. “I was only twelve in the dream. I didn’t meet you in Vega until I was what, seventeen?”

“Eighteen,” she corrected. “I did not get involved with a minor. That would be just…weird.”

“Right,” he grinned. “Because our age difference is only a couple hundred millennia, a year or two makes it weird.”

“That’s not what I meant!” She playfully slapped at his shoulder once more.

“Ow, I’m just kidding, stop it!” He pulled her in tighter, settling in again. “What I mean is, I think if that had been my real world, we would’ve gotten together somehow, someday.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah, I do. You and I are meant to be together.” He leaned down and kissed her on the nose. “You’re my destiny, too.” 

For a moment his focus wandered off, then a rather sly look slowly bloomed across his face. He fumbled around behind her – Noma couldn’t tell what he was doing – and then he grasped at her left hand. 

“Nomes.” His tone turned serious. “Noma, you are _my_ chosen.” He held a small silvery circlet in front of her, the ring that she had seen on the little finger of his left hand. “This was supposed to be my mom’s wedding ring. Gabriel made it for her but she never got to wear it. He asked me to keep it, to remember her.”

“Oh, Alex.”

A sad little smile flit across his face. “What I remember most about my mom is her love. So much love that she sacrificed herself for me, just like you were willing to do.”

“Alex, I – “

He pressed a finger to her lips. “Will you wear it?”

She nodded silently. There were simply no words to say – how did she tell him that she understood everything he was doing, that the ring meant so much more than a simple token of affection.

It meant that he was accepting Gabriel as his father, accepting his parents’ marriage, accepting Gabriel’s gift. It meant that he was accepting his mother’s sacrifice, forgiving her for her death, acknowledging the depths of her love. It meant that he was forgiving Noma for putting a blade through his mother’s chest, recognizing her sacrifices and forgiving her for the mistakes that she had made.

Most of all, it meant that he was uniting the two of them together for all time. Noma understood what that ring had meant to Gabriel, what it would mean to Alex. Father and son were of the same heart. 

He slipped it onto the third finger of her hand, it fit perfectly. “Fancy that,” she said, holding her hand up and admiring it in the early morning light.

 _The morning light_. Noma’s head whipped around to look out the east-facing window. “It’s going to be dawn soon.” 

“I know.” Alex kissed her gently then rolled to the edge of the bed. He reached for the clothes he had folded onto a chair the night before. “I need to get going. It’s time.”

Noma tucked her wing and crawled up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his bare shoulders and rested her head against the side of his. “Let me go with you.”

He leaned back and nuzzled her cheek while he pulled on a pair of pants. “The Prophecy says that I have to do this by myself.”

“You just said that you’re always going to be with me. That means I get to come along.” She tried to pass it off as a joke but the fear in her voice was evident.

“You’re right,” he said, buttoning the pants and reaching for his shirt. “Truth is, I’ve never been alone, my whole life. It’s taken me until now to figure out what that meant.” He turned and took her chin in his hand and kissed her tenderly. “You will always be with me and I will always be with you, no matter what.” 

His eyes cast over her, the shine of her dark hair, the tawny sheen of her skin, the smooth curve of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, her strong, graceful legs. “You can come with me to the church,” he said, “but then I want you to leave. I don’t know what’s going to happen and I want you as far away as possible. I want you to be safe.”

“Alex – “

He stood and grasped her hand, lifting the silvery ring to his lips. “Nomes, please, promise me.”

She knelt on the bed in front of him, in front of the Chosen One. As he pulled on his shirt, she saw his markings shine with a soft amber light. 

The light of his love for her.

She nodded somberly. “I promise.”


	13. Chapter 12

_Operation_ _Ragnarök – Day 21_

_Vega_

Lieutenant Colonel Ethan Mack rushed toward the busy war room of the new C&C, head down, trying to snap the clasps of the flack vest he had just thrown on and simultaneously figure out if he had left anything behind. Vest, helmet, belt, weapons, he went through the list in his mind. It had been a month or so since he had been involved in anything like active duty; lately his dress uniform had gotten more use than his tactical gear.

Rounding the corner and sidestepping to avoid a young captain loaded down with her own kit, he ran headlong into both the Wildcat commander and Colonel Ross McAdams, the leader of the Vega forces. McAdams was the complete opposite of Commander Holt – short, barrel-chested and slightly bow-legged. The two men, however, had worked together well regarding the defenses of the city. McAdams was a career soldier, not a politician, and that had gone far to make things easier for both of them. He’d also been the one to (somewhat reluctantly) suggest Ethan for promotion and the job of liaison to the Wildcat forces.

“Sirs!” Ethan said apologetically, coming up short. He’d obviously interrupted a private meeting. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get the call to report early. I just heard about what the drones found when I woke up.”

Holt put up his hands. “At ease, Mack. They’re still a couple hours out, we have time. We didn’t feel the need to drag people out of their sleep.” He and McAdams had discussed this first – when to rouse the troops, when to notify the citizenry. The combined troops from Vega and New Haven had a solid plan that could be put into effect quickly. Next would come mobilizing the general populace, a balancing act between panic and preparedness. 

“Yes, sir.” The LTC visibly relaxed. “I’ll be…” He tugged at his still half-fastened vest and hitched a self-conscious thumb off to the side. “I’m going to go finish getting ready over there.”

Again, Holt put up a hand. “Hang on a minute, we’re almost done here.” He turned toward the Vega commander. “I think we have to consider what happened here the last time – you lost your defensive grid and then your communications were taken over by hostile forces.”

“That was an extreme situation exacerbated by a lone madman,” McAdams countered.

“I’m not casting blame, Colonel, I’m simply saying that I don’t want to put all of our eggs in one basket. I think it will work best if I’m down in the tunnels with my people. I’ve been studying the maps that David Whele supplied, we’ve got radios that will work down there – we can use an alternate channel if necessary. If something goes wrong topside, if for some reason we lose contact with C&C, I can maintain authority locally.”

The colonel crossed his arms and pursed his lips. “What you mean to say is that you come from the _Charlotte Lannon School of Hands-On Command._ ”

The Wildcat commander tipped his head. “Maybe. She was a helluva leader.”

“From the stories I’ve heard,” McAdams sighed, “I can’t deny it. Alright, that’s what we’ll do then. You’ll take the tunnels and I’ll take anything they throw at us on the surface. We’ll stay coordinated until we can’t.”

“Very good.” Holt turned toward the other officer and extended his hand. “Lieutenant Colonel.” His voice was professional; still, Ethan thought he could hear a note of regret in it. “I believe this may be goodbye, then. I want to say what an honor and pleasure it’s been working with you, nevertheless, I must release you back to your unit. They’ll need you.”

Ethan stared at him. “I…um,” he stuttered, his mind racing while he fumbled with his helmet, trying to get his arm free. This wasn’t what he had imagined, how things were supposed to go. “I…uh…” He looked up at the Holt’s eyes and saw… _something_. The same something that he was feeling inside, the incipient loneliness, the inchoate loss that was about to explode like a land mine in his soul as soon as he took Holt’s hand.

“Sir, requesting permission to remain with the Wildcat forces,” Ethan blurted out. “Sirs.” His eyes darted from one man to the other and he kept talking before he could think too hard about it. “I don’t have a unit anymore, I mean, I don’t have a command. They bumped me up and made me the Wildcat liaison and they gave my unit to somebody else. I’m just going to be another rifle if I stay up top. I know the tunnels, sirs, I used to play down there when we were kids. I can help. Let me help.”

It was Holt’s turn to look from one face to another. He’d been preparing himself for this moment for a few days, prepping himself to lose someone who had become more than just a fellow soldier, maybe even more than just a friend. Now? 

“Colonel McAdams,” Holt said, trying to keep the hope out of his voice, “he’s your man. I defer to your judgement.”

“Are you kidding?” McAdams huffed out a laugh and clapped the LTC on the shoulder. “Mack’s been a thorn in my side for years. Take him.” He put out his hand, first to Holt, and then to the Vega officer. “Best of luck to you both then. Give ‘em hell, Commander.”

“That’s what this is all about,” Holt said with more than a little bravado. “Best of luck to you, too, Colonel.”

McAdams turned and walked back into the war room and both men watched him go. Holt’s measured gaze fell back on the lieutenant colonel. He waited a moment before speaking. “You’re sure about this. It could get pretty ugly down there.”

Ethan nodded, his face serious. “I told you about my friend, Alex.”

“The Chosen One.”

“Yeah. My best friend is out there and I’m not there to watch his back. I don’t like it, I don’t like it at all.”

“So you’re going to watch my back instead.”

Ethan nodded again, the corner of his mouth twisting up as he tapped the gun strapped to his thigh. “Yes, sir. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

_Outside Mallory_

For a moment, Gabriel was alone. He’d found a tree off on the side of the hilltop and he leaned against it, staring down at the valley below. It was a rare thing, this solitude, even in the midst of the preparations for battle. No, he thought, more than preparations. The players were in place, they were tuning their instruments. He could hear bits and pieces of the overture behind him – the musical ring of blades drawn and sharpened, the percussion of firearms being loaded, the basso rumble of the heavy artillery. Soon the concert of chaos would begin in earnest, a symphony of sound and violence and destruction that may, indeed, be the very last the Earth would ever witness.

He looked back on what had brought him here, the long journey that had begun with the boy, David, and now ended with the boy, Alex. Not a boy anymore, he reminded himself. However short his years may be in comparison to Gabriel’s, Alex was a man, a man who had taken on the burden of all of humanity, perhaps all of the angels, too.

A very young, very precious man.

_My son, Alex._

A kind of righteousness filled the archangel, something he hadn’t felt in…well, a very, very long time. Since before Sodom, before Gomorrah, since before he had felt the wet blood of an innocent on his hands for the first time. Yes, innocents would die once again this day, perhaps even at his hand, but he would find no joy in it. This was a battle that _must_ be fought, that was forced upon him, forced upon them all. 

What had the humans called their great conflict, “The War to End All Wars?” They had been wrong, of course, the humans were as violent and greedy as any species, yet at least they could strive for a goal, that inimitable concept of peace. And not the warped peace that Lucifer offered, the peace of yoke and whip. 

_Peace_. An almost unimaginable concept.

Almost like Heaven.

His solitude was interrupted by the particular whine of a small engine as a motorcycle, more of a dirt bike, approached. It skidded inelegantly to a stop a few yards away and the rider clambered off. Mouse removed her helmet and left it on one of the handlebars.

“You’re damn difficult to find,” she said with only a modicum of irritation, fishing in the messenger bag she wore over her shoulder. 

Gabriel spread his hands. “It’s not a very large hill.” Then he saw the small black box she pulled out of the bag. _A radio._ He sighed. “Perhaps I should have tried harder.”

Handing him the transceiver, she tried to look stern, tried to stifle a smile and was only partially successful. “I know it’s a pain but you need to wear it, we need to stay in contact. Besides, I got you a special one.” She gave him a placating look and pointed out how to use the secondary features. “Only you and your brother, Jenkins and I have these. You’ll have access to the normal channels but we have one channel for just us. Jenkins thought it might come in handy.”

Gabriel grudgingly took the transceiver and hooked it to the back of his pants. At least it was small. The dreaded earpiece – he stared at it momentarily, then thrust it into his pocket. “I will use it when the time comes,” he promised.

Mouse gave him a long stare, the one she had modeled after Commander Lannon’s pointed looks. It was remarkable effective on most people. Not so on stubborn archangels, it would seem. 

She was just turning to go when Gabriel reached out and grasped her arm. Gently this time, not the iron grip he had used when he had woken up that first night. She halted, surprised, then was even more surprised when he carefully pushed up her sleeve and turned her wrist side to side.

“I’m glad you’ve healed,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to harm you.” 

“I know.” She pulled her arm back. “I don’t blame you, you weren’t…awake.”

He gave a bitter little laugh. “That might be the first thing I _haven’t_ been blamed for recently.”

“I know you’re trying.” She shrugged. “That’s all any of us can do.”

 _Trying_. That was what Alex had said. And it _was_ all anyone could really do – try. One had to try first to succeed. 

“Thank you,” he said, blurting the words out almost unintentionally. “You and…Jenkins. You’ve been the closest to…to friends…” He faltered, stopped, biting his lip, uncharacteristically awkward. He’d made assumptions that he shouldn’t have made. 

Mouse stepped close until she was only a few inches away, looking up at him. He towered over her by at least a foot and yet she showed no fear; in fact, she stared up at him with her brow furrowed, as if she was frustrated with him.

“You understand chain of command,” she said. He nodded. “I followed a chain of trust with you. Commander Lannon trusted you. Trusted you, loved you. That really said something, because there is no person on the earth that I respected more than Charlotte Lannon. If she said you’re okay, that you’re… _different_ …than you were before, if Commander Jenkins believes that, then I believe it, too.”

He nodded again. Words seemed somehow inadequate.

Mouse turned to leave, then she stopped. “Gabriel.” She looked back over her shoulder, her expression pained. “Here, this battle, it’s not the time to _be_ different. If we’re going to win, we need you to be everything you were. Every…terrible…thing…you…were.”

The motorcycle roared away, leaving Gabriel standing there, his eyes focused somewhere on the past, his musings competing with the swirl of dust and noise.

He’d said the same to Charlotte once – it seemed ages ago now – how he would need to be the greatest and most ruthless warrior he had ever been, and at the same time to be the most human. He had hoped that Charlotte would have helped him to do that; now he had her protégé, the very un-mousey Mouse.

The little human continued to impress him. She understood so much more than she should have for her tender years, and she had an uncanny ability to pull thoughts from the depths of one’s soul. 

His hand slipped into his pocket and he pulled out the earpiece, then he fixed it into place. As much as he hated the thing, it gave him a bit of warmth inside. One way or another, they would be close – his brother, Jenkins and Mouse. A tether to this world, to the world where he _was_ different.

One way or another, he would return to this world, or die trying. 

But for now…

Gabriel stood tall, rolling his shoulders back, inhaling the cool morning air and letting it slowly out. A kind of stillness came over his features, a focused mien of cold superiority. His left hand checked the sword at his hip, seating it there firmly, while his right hand slowly ran over the never-ending knot inscribed into the leather of his breastplate.

Now it was time to fight.

Michael was speaking with one of the infantry commanders at the back of a Humvee when he looked up to see his twin approach. A familiar glower showed on the other archangel’s face and the lines of the Wildcat army parted before him like the proverbial Red Sea.

“Brother,” Michael hailed. He bobbed his head toward the far horizon. A bright pinpoint of silver showed against the rosy-purple twilight of the early morning sky, just above the far treetops. “The Morning Star. I’ve never seen it so brilliant. No doubt Lucifer sees it as an omen and will begin his attack soon.”

“Good,” Gabriel purred out in reply. “I want to get this farcical game over with, it’s gone on far too long.”

Michael watched his brother for a moment. Gabriel moods had been running hot and cold since they had arrived, not that he didn’t have every reason to feel that way. Michael had more experience focusing on the task at hand when it came to the battlefield, yet even he was having difficulties keeping out thoughts of Alex and Laurel and his unborn child. That said, there was much too much to be done to let personal issues interfere.

Still, Gabriel’s attitude had subtly – or perhaps not-so-subtly – changed. He was pacing again, yet this time in anticipation, not apprehension, his hand clenching and unclenching, eager to reach for his sword. It seemed that he had conquered his fears, at least for the time being.

Michael waved a hand at the papers laid out on the bed of the Humvee. A light bar illuminated the topographical map and the various hand-drawn markings on it. “This takes into account everything that could be seen by recon of any type. Jenkins will take the motorized units and move in this direction.” He pointed to one area on the map. “I shall lead the infantry this –”

He stopped suddenly and stared up at Gabriel: his brother had heard it too. The hilltop was filled with soldiers and vehicles of all sorts however this sound was too familiar for either of them to ignore – the hurried patter of small, graceful feet.

A slight figure pushed her way through a group of heavily armed soldiers, squeezing past towering men that made her look more like a young girl than a powerful archangel. She stumbled up to the side of the Humvee, one arm wrapped around her ribs, holding closed the old Gulf War-era BDU jacket someone had found for her. It hung down to her thighs and she had the sleeves rolled up, making her look even more like a child playing dress-up, but at least she had some piece of uniform that designated her as part of the Wildcat contingent.

“Brothers,” Raphael huffed out, trying to catch her breath while giving them a tired smile. “I’m pleased I found you, I don’t know how much longer I could have run around looking.”

Michael’s arm reached out reflexively to support her; she looked more than a little fatigued. It was obvious she was still far from fully recovered. 

Gabriel was less solicitous. He glared at his sister. “What are you doing here? Jenkins said you would be assisting the doctors at the rear.”

Pushing herself away from her brother’s supportive hold, Raphael stood tall. She thrust back the sides of the oversized jacket to expose two curved swords hanging from a belt at her hips. 

Michael took an involuntary step back. “Raphael, where did you get those?"

“I had to have them, Michael. I couldn’t come here unarmed.” Her voice was perfectly calm even in the midst of the growing chaos around them. Too calm.

His eyes never left the shotels. A terrible dread, like a choking vine, took root in his heart. “Where did you get them?”

“They were in your quarters, of course. I knew that. Laurel retrieved them for me before we left the base.”

Suddenly, Michael had forgotten how to breathe. 

_Laurel?_

The vine of dread wound round his chest, suffocating him, twining around his throat, cutting off words. He wanted to scream but he had no air. The word echoed in his mind… _NO, NO, NO, NO!_

“Lucifer spoke to me again,” Raphael continued, still so very composed. “He was full of words of contrition and caring.” She gave a sort of confused smile, a strange, pained expression that tiptoed just this side of sanity. “He wants me back. He wants me to fight for him.”

Gabriel stepped forward. His eyes flicked from one sibling to the other. He waited for Michael to respond but his twin was alarmingly silent. 

“What did you tell him?” Gabriel finally asked. 

“I told him to go to Hell.” The confusion transformed into resolve, the calm into determination, her striking grey eyes bright with purpose. “My place is with you, not him. My wings may not be fully healed, but my swords are sharp. I want to fight next you, brothers. I want to try to atone for some of what I’ve done. Let me go into battle with you – die if I must – but let me fight Lucifer.”

The air nearly exploded from Michael’s chest, his eyes wide in both relief and incredulity. _Laurel had not betrayed them._

_Neither had Raphael._

Then he considered further what she had said. Unconsciously, his hand went to his stomach. The wound she had given him was healed, at least physically. He knew that she would never have been able to land that attack in the past; Raphael had become much more skilled with a sword, or two, as it was in her case. She was a formidable warrior now, certainly Lucifer’s doing.

It would be quite ironic to turn her new talents back on the Son of Morning. An irony even Father would appreciate. Still, he was hesitant.

The trio of angels felt rather than heard the hooves of the great horse as it trotted up to them in the thick grass, Jenkins at the reins. The black mare bounced her head, sensing the tension in the air, her muscles rippling in anticipation under the light armor she wore. 

“Archangels.” The greeting was less than friendly. Jenkins climbed down and handed the reins off to a nearby soldier, then snapped the strap of his helmet, yanking it off in irritation. He set it down on the back of the Humvee with a clatter and turned on Raphael. “I thought you were supposed to be back with the medics.”

Michael stepped forward. “My sister wants –”

“I can speak for myself, Michael.” Raphael put a gentle hand on his arm. “The commander should know as well – Lucifer spoke to me once again. He asked me to join his side in this battle. I rather forcefully told him no.” Her lips turned up in a small, proud smile. “I don’t think we need worry about him bothering me any longer.”

Jenkins scowled. “Why do you say that?”

“The psychic bond flows in two directions. One needs only the knowledge and strength to be able to use it. I’m not stupid and I’m not weak; I let our dear brother know that if he ever tried to control me again,” her eyes flashed wickedly, “I’d take control of him.”

Gabriel let out a little snort of appreciation. He was grateful none of his “subjects” had ever figured out that particular detail, although he had tended to pick less intelligent puppets than his formidable sister. Nonetheless, it solved one problem.

And left the other. “Raphael wants to fight with us,” he said, trying to keep any emotion out of his voice. He wanted Jenkins’ opinion untainted by his own roiling sentiments. 

There was a long – a very long – silence. Finally Jenkins turned to Gabriel. “What do you think about this?”

It was as if the conversation was strictly between the two of them. Everyone knew why, everyone knew the particular pain that they shared. Gabriel shook his head. “We’ve run out of time for thinking. I can say that she’s proven herself a warrior. That is all.”

Jenkins crossed his arms and ran the edge of his thumb over his mustache, his default pondering pose. His eyes flicked from one archangel to the other and to the third, devoid of expression. “I understand that we’re only human, but we do have a few thousand warriors. We have very few medics.”

“I want to fight Lucifer,” Raphael pleaded. “For everything he’s done, to all of us.”

“I appreciate that,” Jenkins said. “It doesn’t change things; I want you with the medical units.”

She bowed her head. “I understand. This is your command.”

Jenkins let out a long sigh. He really hadn’t wanted to get into a pissing contest with an archangel, any of them. Having Raphael concede to his command decision was huge. “If it makes you feel any better, you may get the opportunity you’re looking for. We’re concentrated forward, we’ve only allowed for a few squads in the back. If they attack...”

“Then I’ll trade my scalpel for these,” Raphael said confidently, resting her hands on the shotels. “Our brother is nothing if not thorough; he’ll send troops to outflank us if he can.”

The commander turned toward the other two. Michael radiated an intensity waiting to be unleashed, while Gabriel had taken to watching the dark mass of motionless eight-balls, his mouth twisted up into a dismissive smirk. The look reminded the commander too much of the moments after Charlotte Lannon’s death – the archangel had had that same look of haughty superiority. “You look as eager to get this thing started as I am.”

Gabriel turned back. “This needs to end.”

“I agree.” The commander glanced back to the soldier holding the horse’s reins a few yards away and gave him a quick nod, then took in the three archangels with a contemplative gaze. His eyes moved slowly from them to the landscape before him, across the thousands of soldiers and dozens of vehicles. Finally his gaze drifted down to the town of Mallory, deceptively peaceful in the dark valley below them. He couldn’t stop thinking about what the Prophet had said, about all those other settlements, all those other communities across the world. The Wildcats and the people of Vega and Helena had been naïve – even arrogant – to think that they had been the only humans to survive, to thrive. 

All those other people, fighting for their lives, across the entire globe. And yet the battle against Lucifer was right here.

“Well,” Jenkins finally said, “If we’re going to start the Apocalypse, I think we’re a few horses short.”

Two things happened simultaneously – one of the lookouts shouted out to Jenkins at the same time the sound of a small but determined six-cylinder engine broke through the background noise. Heads swiveled this way and that trying to figure out which was more important.

“Commander!” the spotter called again, running toward the group. 

Jenkins was just about to reply when another voice rang through the air. “Michael!”

“Laurel?” Michael pushed past the commander to move toward the Jeep that had just pulled up nearby. Laurel was already climbing out of the passenger’s side.

“Laurel, what are you doing here?” He quickly checked her for wounds, running his hand down the side of her head. “It’s not safe, you were to stay with the medical team.”

She looked up at him and gave him a patient smile. “We talked about this – it’s not safe anywhere. That’s not why I’m here.” She grasped his hand and started to pull him toward Gabriel and the others. “Come on, I want to tell everyone what happened.”

Jenkins spoke up as soon as they were close. “There’s been movement around the church. It looks like the townies are setting up to protect it.” He shook his head. “This isn’t good.”

Laurel leaned forward, her face intent. “That’s why I came up here. Lucifer – well, he certainly didn’t call himself that,” she paused and rolled her eyes, “I heard him again. He told me to come and protect the church. I’m sure he’s spoken to everyone – we’ve all been praying – he probably said the same thing to them, except they don’t know who they’re dealing with. They think it’s an order from God.” Her face screwed up and she swallowed to choke back threatening tears. “They’re going to give their lives to protect him, they don’t understand. They’re good people, they think they’re protecting the church from evil. They don’t understand that the evil is inside.”

“Commander, did your people see Alex near the church?” It was obvious from his expression that Michael was already changing their plan of attack, trying to include all factors.

“Hard to say, it’s been too dark to make positive ID.” Jenkins said. “What are you thinking?”

“I think that Laurel is correct: Lucifer is using the people of Mallory as a wall to protect himself. This verifies that he dwells within the church, at least in some form. It stays our primary target.”

“What do you mean, primary target?” Laurel cried out. “We can’t sacrifice all those people!”

“No,” Michael turned toward her. “No, we won’t,” he said soothingly. 

Gabriel gave a low groan. “You want to go down there.”

“I see no other way.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jenkins let his hands flap to his side in exasperation. “You said yourself that you think their attack is imminent, we don’t have time for you to take a side quest.”

“This _is_ part of his attack, the first salvo, if you will.” Michael’s dark eyes quickly took them all in. “From the beginning, Lucifer’s plan has been to separate those who would oppose him, to cause distrust, suspicion, even hatred among us. So far we’ve overcome that to stand together. Now he has no choice but to force us to fight on multiple fronts. He expects at least some of us to go to Mallory.”

Jenkins shook his head, his lips pursed in irritation. “I’m not real comfortable doing what the enemy expects. That’s not a very good battle strategy.”

“Then we won’t fight!” Laurel said. “Let me go down there, let me talk to them. They’re my people, they know me. I can…I can tell them what I’ve learned. They know something’s not right, I can explain. I can…I can…” She trailed off, unsure of what else to say. “They’re not stupid, they’re just following the wrong voice. Let me give them the right voice to follow.”

Michael turned toward her. Once again he was struck by her strength, her depth of courage. “Laurel.” 

“I know,” she said. “It’s dangerous,” she rested her hand on her swollen middle, “for both of us, but I can’t sit back there in a bus and let all those people die. They’re my people, Michael, my friends. I have to do this, I have to try. Please, help me.”

A myriad of emotions crossed the archangel’s face, emotions he was not used to feeling so strongly – fear for Laurel, for his child, anger that they were forced into this untenable situation, love that seemed to grow with every minute. Yet the strongest emotion was pride. This woman, this human, was so willing to put herself in harm’s way for the sake of her people. It was more than anyone could ask, it was angelic in the best possible use of the word.

“Do you truly think you can convince them to lay down their arms?” he asked.

For a moment, she paused. “I don’t know. Some of them are so damn stubborn. If nothing else, we can get the children to safety, there’s an old school building, its brick. Should hold up until…” She glanced up at Jenkins.

“I’ll try to get an alley opened up, get a convoy to you, try to get some kind of evacuation, but I can’t promise anything.” He sighed. “This was not in the plans.” Then he looked at the pregnant women solemnly, taking in her jeans, her loose cotton blouse. “You can’t go down there like that. Dammit.” He shrugged out of his jacket and started disengaging the straps on his flak vest. “Somebody help me with this damn thing,” he said irritably.

Laurel watched him in shock. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t have any body armor and with your belly like that,” Jenkins growled as a nearby soldier aided him with the vest, “well, I’m the only one that has anything that will fit you. Here, put this on. It’s not perfect, but it’s at least something. And get Mouse,” he snapped at the soldier. “Get this woman a radio she can take along. I want to know what’s happening down there.”

Laurel was near tears as she was fit into the vest. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

“I still don’t like it, but I’m not going to waste time trying to convince either of you otherwise.” He turned toward Raphael. It was time to reassert at least a little control over this three-ring circus. “I haven’t forgotten about you. I want you back in the rear with the medicos.”

The tiny archangel gave him a sly look. She’d seen how quickly the commander had been willing to give up his own safety for her brother’s woman. It was more than endearing – it was excellent leadership, one she was willing to bow to. “I’ll go now.”

“Naomi drove me up in the Jeep,” Laurel said as the last strap was fastened on the vest, snugging her in. “She could drive you back.”

Raphael smiled. “Thank you.” Then she impulsively ran over and embraced Laurel in a quick, tight hug. “Good luck,” she whispered in her ear. “Enjoy the flight.”

Laurel watched with wide eyes as Raphael hurried back to the Jeep. Suddenly it was becoming real, what she had offered to do. Mouse came up and tucked a small radio into a pocket in the flack vest, giving her a tiny plastic bud to wrestle into one ear. The young woman said words but they didn’t seem to make it past Laurel’s eyes – she could see Mouse’s lips move and hear some kind of noise yet nothing seemed to register over the sound of her own heart thudding inside.

Laurel had been in more battles than she cared to remember, she wasn’t afraid to fight. She wasn’t afraid of a confrontation, either - she’d faced down angry townsfolk, drunken neighbors, even a crazed bull once, but this was something she hadn’t bargained on. Raphael’s words had struck her – there was only one way to get from the hilltop down to Mallory. The road was blockaded, no truck or vehicle could get through.

She would have to fly – Michael would have to carry her.

_What had she been thinking?_

Gabriel had walked off to the side while Laurel was being prepped and once again he stood scowling down at the town below them. There were more torches there now joining the great bonfire, ringing the church like a row of tiny amber stones set with a great blazing ruby.

He could sense when his twin stood next to him. “I know that this place means something to you, Michael, but I don’t like it. It has a certain malignancy to it that I find off-putting.”

“The malignancy is our brother, and the goal is to remove him.” 

Gabriel’s eyes did not stray from the church. “My son is there.”

Michael put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “If I can find him, I will.”

“I know, you’ve always watched over him when I…” He stopped talking and his head dropped. “Take care of that woman of yours, brother. If you must, bundle her up and fly her far away from here, find a safe place for her and your child.”

The unspoken regrets were only too obvious. Michael’s smile was bittersweet. “If I didn’t think she would fight me the entire way, I would do just that. And tell her it was your idea.”

Gabriel gave an amused snort then turned toward his brother. “I don’t like going into this battle without you.”

“The plan was never to fight side by side, you know that.”

“I never particularly liked that idea, either.”

Michael gripped his brother behind the neck, pulling him close. “You’re my twin, Gabriel, my other half. We will never be truly apart.”

For a moment, Gabriel’s jaw lost its pugnacious thrust, his expression softened and his lower lip trembled ever so slightly. “I love you, brother.”

Michael pulled him into a tight and completely unexpected embrace. They stood that way for nearly a minute as the war machine started up around them. 

Yin and yang, they held each other close.

“I love you, too, Gabriel.”

_Mallory_

It was evident from the moment that they left the house that Mallory had changed. As Alex and Noma walked down the street, it almost seemed as if they had gone to sleep in one town and woken up in another. The buildings were the same, whitewashed and well-kept, the gardens were still meticulously cared for, the air still had the crisp scent of fall, and the ever-present fire still burned at the front of the house of worship, yet there was something different, something intangible and yet wholly evident.

Fear.

No, even more than fear. The inhabitants of Mallory had feared the eight-balls since the beginning, yet they had known that they had hope, they had a way to defeat the fallen angels and they had lived their lives in an almost blissful obliviousness that was only occasionally shattered by reality. 

Now that hope was cracking, dissolving under a siege of near-panic that could be seen in wide eyes and fearful looks. Mothers clasped their babies in their arms, fathers shoved guns into their too-young son’s hands, men and women clutched at staves and shovels and rifles and pitchforks, anything they could find to serve as a weapon.

The people marched toward the church in the pre-dawn light, ringing the structure in a rag-tag defensive column that was both pitiful and inspiring, determined to defend a lie with their lives.

Alex moved toward the line of townsfolk, his hand clasped firmly in Noma’s. Once again, whispered comments followed him and he could hear fragments of their words: “stranger,” "expected,” and “Chosen One.” They parted before him. The doors to the little church were open and he and Noma walked inside.

The church, too, was different. Gone were the statues, icons, reliquaries, crosses and shrines. Gone too, were the dozens and dozens of candles, their years of drippings carved away as if by an ecclesiastical hot knife. Only a few remained to illuminate the large mural that still stood on the back wall, its folk-art depiction of a halcyon farming community – Lucifer’s vision for Mallory. 

The altar itself was empty except for one item, a short, straight dagger, the blade that Alex could only assume was used in the so-called Celebration.

Lucifer sat in the front pew, somehow making it look as if he’d both just arrived and as if he’d been casually waiting there for half the day. Once again his clothes were immaculate, an almost pearlescent linen shirt over chalk-white pants. A part of Alex was momentarily jealous – even in his tailored dress uniform, the one he’d had to get for the Reisen political events, his clothes had never fit that well, never looked that good.

The First Archangel rose as they entered, a gracious smile spreading across his face. “Come in, come in! Alex, I’m so happy you’ve finally arrived, we have so much to talk about. Did you sleep well?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer, looking instead at the back of the church, at the occasional glimpse of a farmer or mother and child that could be seen as they passed by, and frowned. “Noma, will you shut the doors? Things are…getting busy out there. We don’t want to be disturbed by the noise.”

Noma gave a hesitant nod and walked back to the entrance, closing off the heavy doors with an audible thud. As soon as they latched, the church became eerily quiet.

Lucifer spread his hands out as if in explanation. “Supernal soundproofing. What good is being an archangel with the power of creation if you can’t have a little fun with it?” He smiled again genially and beckoned them forward. Then he tipped his head toward the Chosen One. “Noma, sweet, do us a favor and collect Alex’s weapons, will you? He won’t be needing them anymore.”

Alex froze where he stood, the mood, even the very air in the little church suddenly seeming much colder. “What are you talking about?”

“Human weapons, Alex. Your gun and your knife, even the shells and grenades your friends have trained on the church here. You aren’t stupid enough to think that they are actually going to have any _effect_ on me. I thought better of you.”

“Then why bother taking them away?”

“Alex.” The archangel’s disdainful tone was all too reminiscent of Gabriel’s remonstrations. “I want to have a civil discussion with you, that’s all. I find that humans are more reasonable when they don’t have their fabricated defenses to fall back on.” He made a little gesture of disapproval with his hand.

Alex stood rigidly still while Noma approached him, continuing to stare at the archangel, refusing to meet her eyes. He pulled his pistol from the holster on his hip, checked the safety and handed it to her grip-first. 

She took it and slid it into the waistband at the back of her pants. “I’m sorry, Alex.” 

“The knife too,” Lucifer said, sounding bored. “In fact, just take the whole belt, we don’t want any surprises, do we?”

“Nomes.” Alex finally turned his gaze toward Noma, his eyes boring into hers as he untied the thigh strap for his holster. “Why are you doing this? I thought…I thought we…”

She shook her head. “I don’t have a choice, Alex. I owe him, I owe Lucifer. Don’t make it more difficult than it already is.”

He blew out a bitter laugh. “You two-faced bitch. You want me to make it _easy_ for you?”

“Please, Alex.” It came out little more than a whisper.

He finished removing the belt and wrapped it up, shoving it at her brusquely. “Here, take it. That’s my mother’s blade, don't cut yourself.” His voice was laced with cruel disdain. “Now get the hell out of my sight.”

The bundle in her arms, she turned away, her head tossed back defiantly. She walked up to the altar, gazing up at the mural, at the folksy bucolic vision of country life. “They really are very simple, aren’t they?” she said, her voice catching a little. “The humans.”

“I’m afraid they are,” Lucifer agreed. “At the end of the day, they want to be safe and fed and protected more than anything else.”

 _“Excuse me!”_ Alex nearly shouted, his arms raised in exasperation. “Human standing right here! Still in the room!”

“That’s the whole point, Alex.” Lucifer turned back toward him, his expression once again completely solicitous, as if the last two minutes had not happened at all. “You’re not really human, you’re…something different. You’re family.” He glanced at Noma over his shoulder. “Thank you much, dear, for all your help, but I do believe that this conversation should be private, just my nephew and I. We’ll talk when all this unpleasantness is over.” His expression was warm and sincere. “You will have an important place in our new world.”

She smiled back eagerly, as if Lucifer’s regard was her greatest concern. “Thank you, Archangel, I look forward to it.” She adjusted her hold on the bundle in her arms and turned to leave and for just a moment, her eyes met Alex’s. 

He stared at her, saying nothing, his jaw thrust out fiercely, looking so much like his father that she was struck by how ridiculous it was that she had never figured out the relationship before. 

_They were so very, very similar._

“Goodbye, Alex,” she finally said, and she turned to go out the tiny side exit of the little church. Alex said nothing, his sullen silence following her as she closed the door behind her, leaving him alone with Lucifer. Alone with his fate.

_Just as they had planned._

_Outside Mallory_

Jenkins stared down at the maps on the bed of the Humvee, took in a deep breath and let out a quick string of instructions to the half-dozen group leaders he had assembled. The tactical situation had changed – again – and they wouldn’t have the time to come up with a completely different plan. It was time to get creative. He could feel a wave of malevolence coming from the horde of eight-balls that was almost physical, certainly a presage to their imminent attack – _they_ certainly weren’t going to wait.

He wasn’t the only one that could feel it. Gabriel strode toward him, his scowl even more intimidating that usual.

“You’re brother and Laurel are off then?” Jenkins asked. 

Gabriel nodded. “I don’t like it.”

Jenkins had noticed recently there was very little that the archangel _did_ like. “Neither do I, but it’s not as if we had a choice in the matter.” The horizon to the east had taken on a significant rosy cast and he checked his watch. “Unless something goes down in the next twenty minutes, we’re going to start the offensive at 0600. Are you ready?”

The weary look Gabriel gave him was more than sufficient answer.

“Alright then.” 

Jenkins was about to say something more when the moment hit him. He’d been waiting for – it always came to him sooner or later – that moment when he came face to face with the reality of war, the inevitability of battle and therefore of death, but this particular moment had taken its sweet time coming. 

Then again, perhaps it was just building up steam, because when it hit, it was spectacular. Jenkins was rather suddenly speechless, struck by enormity of what they were about to do…

_…to battle Satan himself, for the fate of all humanity._

He gaped at Gabriel for a few seconds, his eyes wide, his mouth caught between words. He had made the choice to fight, to go up against possibly the largest army left on earth, to battle the First Archangel. He had made that choice for all of mankind.

What right did he have to choose? What right did he have to sentence them all to extermination? And for what, for freedom?

_Was freedom worth their very existence?_

Gabriel stared at the man, watching him go from focused and alert to suddenly adrift in his own thoughts. “Jenkins, man, what is it?”

“What if it’s wrong?” the commander said, his voice very small. “How do I know this is the right choice?”

“The right choice?” Gabriel grabbed Jenkins' arm and nearly dragged him, pulling him over to the edge of the hill. “Look down there,” he said curtly, pointing toward the town below. “Do you see that? That is my brother’s idea of Utopia, his ‘Heaven on Earth.’ Even Michael was enamored with the place. That is Lucifer’s choice for you – perfect little towns with perfect little farms, all beholden to his benevolent care.

“Except humans aren’t perfect. They’re proud and they’re stubborn and they continually strive to change their world, no matter how perfect it is. It’s annoying and it’s frustrating and it’s utterly _human_. Think about this for a moment, this kind of a future. Don’t consider yourself, consider the others. Think of Mouse, think of your XO down there in that town. She’s intelligent, she’s headstrong – do you think she will want to grow vegetables and milk cows for the rest of her life? Do you think she will be happy in that little town, under Lucifer’s guiding hand? What do you think he will do when she rebels, when she can’t take any more of his ‘perfection?’ Do you think he will be so benevolent then? Or will she be the victim of the next ‘Celebration’ when he finds yet another way to become even more powerful?”

The archangel watched as Jenkins' expression changed from crippling fear to abject horror to righteous anger. There was a reason he had chosen to use the petite XO as an example; Gabriel was a past master at seeing hidden emotions – as long as they didn’t pertain to himself.

“You’re right.” Jenkins stood tall, his eyes clear, his chin set in determination. “Living is more than being alive. I’m not about to bow to your brother and I doubt that these people are willing too, either. Charlotte gave us too much freedom to easily take a bit into our teeth.” He nodded at the archangel. “Thank you. I obviously needed some sense talked into me.”

“Lucifer has a way of manipulating people, even from afar. Doubt is one of his greatest tools. He used it on me,” the archangel spread his hands, “and look where it got us.”

“That was in the past,” Jenkins said with a sigh. He paused for a moment and then, as if making a decision, held out his hand. “I honestly never thought I would say this to the Archangel Gabriel – no matter what happens out there today, it’s been an honor to serve with you, sir.”

Gabriel was taken aback; the man was truly sincere. He grasped Jenkins' forearm, the same grip he use with Michael, a gesture between comrades, of brotherhood. “The honor is mine.”

Jenkins took in a deep, resolute breath. “Let’s do this then. Archangel,” he released Gabriel’s arm and snapped off a smart salute, “I’ll see you on the other side.”

“Yes. Commander.” Gabriel thumped his fist over his heart, over the remnant of brown that still stained his armor, and tipped his head. “On the other side.”

Jenkins watched the archangel walk away. He certainly hadn’t expected Gabriel to be the one to give him a pep talk; nonetheless, he felt as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. His mind was once again focused, his mission clear. 

“Mouse!” he yelled, “where’s my damn helmet?” There were only a few minutes left before the batteries would begin their opening salvos and he needed to be in position. He laughed to himself – no body armor – that was a risk – but it would make riding Freyja a little easier. And imminently more hazardous. 

_Time to live dangerously, old man, it might be your last chance. As if that had been an issue over the last few decades._

_Good Lord, he was getting loopy._

The diminutive commander ran up, a helmet under her arm. “Here you go, sir. You left it in the Humvee.”

He smiled unexpectedly and took it from her. “Do you like cows, Mouse?” He waved once again to the soldier who had patiently been holding onto the reins of the horse for what had turned out to be much longer than anticipated.

“Uh, no sir, not especially.” She grimaced, completely confused. “Not my thing.”

Jenkins gave a kind of self-conscious laugh while he checked the helmet straps. “I didn’t think so. Anything else I should be aware of?” 

“About farm animals, sir?”

This made him laugh even harder. “No, not about farm animals.” He shook his head, grinning broadly, then stopped. “Have I told you lately what a treasure you are?”

Mouse dropped her eyes and felt her cheeks blaze with heat. “Just doing my job, sir.”

He traded out the reins with the soldier and dismissed him, then gave Freyja an affectionate rub. “You and I both know that’s not true, Marissa. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Ever so gently, Jenkins tucked one crooked finger under the petite woman’s chin and lifted her face up. It was rare that she allowed herself to regard him so directly; she knew exactly what he would see within. 

This time her eyes met his. 

He said nothing, the silence filled with a thousand words. Words he did not yet have the bravery to speak, words that would come soon enough, if they were given the time. He rubbed the side of her cheek with his thumb and gave her a soft, quiet look, a look full of promise, of hope, and her face broke into a smile as bright as any summer day.

Then he handed her back his helmet and turned back toward Freyja. Setting boot into stirrup and taking hold of the horn, he pulled himself up onto the mare. Mouse stroked the horse’s velvety nose while Jenkins settled himself in the saddle.

She handed up the helmet with a scowl that was only partially feigned. “I don’t know why you’re bothering with this thing. I saw you give away your flak vest. You’re completely unprotected. Even the archangels are wearing armor.”

He snugged the helmet over his head, grinning. It was exactly the dressing-down he had expected from her when he had stripped off the vest. “I need the radio. If it wasn’t in the helmet, I wouldn’t be sporting that, either.”

Mouse rolled her eyes in exasperation. She reached into the pocket of her pants and pulled out a bundle of cloth. “Alright, that settles it. If you’re going to be brave and heroic and stupid, you should probably have this.” She handed it up to him – it was rather far up now that he was mounted on the big horse.

Jenkins let the fabric unroll in his hands, a long strip of dark crimson red, maybe six inches wide and nearly two yards long. “What’s this?”

Suddenly Mouse felt just as small as her nickname but she’d already given it to him and it would be worse without an explanation. Maybe. “It’s just…riding Freyja, you know, with the sword and all…you look kinda like a knight,” she stumbled. “I mean a knight on horseback. I thought you should have…” She stopped and winced. “I made it out of a pillow case. I’m sorry, I should have never said anything, it’s stupid and juvenile and –”

“Commander!” Jenkins cut her off before she could continue.

She snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.”

He looked down at her, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. “T’will be my honor,” he said softly, his faded cockney accent now distinctly Elizabethan. He wrapped the scarf around his neck and tucked it into his shirt, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that she had not seen before. “Gramercy, m’ lady.”

Before the embarrassed young woman could respond, there was a roaring outcry from one side of the hill. A shout went up: “Commander! They’re on the move!”

The change in Jenkins was immediate. He yanked the strap of his helmet tight and reflexively checked his gun and his sword. “Get back to the comm unit, Mouse,” he ordered. “You know what to do.”

She swallowed hard, gave him a nod and a quick salute. “Yes, sir.” Then she turned and found the motorcycle she had left leaning in the shadow of a nearby JTLV. She climbed on the bike, threw on her own helmet and revved the engine a little too hard, her adrenaline spiking, her mind already spinning in a thousand directions as the thunderclap of a mortar round exploded somewhere not too far away.

Her heel flipped up the kickstand and she took one last look over her shoulder. Just then, Jenkins reared the great black horse, her lustrous braided mane flying wildly, her tack shining, her front hooves pawing at the air, an incredible sight against the pale orange-gold of the dawn sky. Mouse laughed beneath the cover of her helmet visor – he had to have practiced that move, it wasn’t something one did without falling off. 

And it was worth it, it was worth every single majestic moment. Mouse could feel pride and faith and confidence radiating out from Freyja and her rider, casting out over the hill, through the troops, charging them all with hope and righteous courage.

She only hoped it would be enough, the fate of humanity depended upon it.

_Mallory_

Michael landed behind a copse of trees near a large house, out of sight of the church and the people now collected there. He didn’t want to startle the townsfolk with the sight of a winged apparition arriving from the sky, even in the dim morning light – they had guns, he was carrying Laurel and everyone was on tenterhooks. Better to arrive a bit more covertly.

He gently set Laurel down on the ground and she eventually released the death-grip she had around his neck. Her breathing was short and fast and he tipped her head up to look at her face, to check her signs for cyanosis. He had been careful not to fly too high, careful not to go too fast…

“Are you alright?” he asked.

She laughed, turning away, embarrassed. “Yes, yes.” She shook her arms out, trying to get the blood back in them, trying to relax. “That was…incredible. I’ve…I’ve never flown before. Not even in an airplane before the War, I was too young.”

Now it was Michael’s turn to be self-conscious. Flying was so normal, so natural to him, so innately _angelic_ , he forgot how amazing it could be. “I’m sorry, I didn’t give you much warning.”

That was certainly true. Michael had wrapped one strong arm around Laurel’s waist, told her to hang on and launched himself toward the sky. She’d clung to him like a terrified baby monkey with both her arms and legs, certain that the act itself would send them both crashing to the ground. It had taken everything she’d had not to scream at the top of her lungs, then he’d looked down at her with an expression of such composure and strength that she’d managed to swallow down the cry and almost... _almost…_ relax.

“If you had warned me I probably wouldn’t have gone,” she admitted ruefully. She watched while he rolled his shoulders and tucked his wings away, an act so natural to him and yet so foreign to her. It was fascinating. “When this is all over, maybe…” she grinned sheepishly, “maybe we could do that again.”

Michael grasped her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it gently. His blue eyes sparkled. “We shall.”

Her fingers tightened around his. “Alright then, let’s go do this.”

They walked toward the church, moving into the throng that surrounded the simple white building. In front, the bonfire still burned, its armature reaching towards the heavens like Prometheus, striving upward yet bound to the earth. Michael glared at it as they approached – he very much doubted that the design was haphazard. There was a message in that blaze, a message that had been subtly transmitted to the people of Mallory for over two decades – “ _You shall not escape.”_

Their footsteps quickened as they moved closer, the sense of alarm that the townspeople felt pervading the air around them. No one seemed to notice the new arrivals at first, everyone too intent on their own tasks – collecting fuel for the fire, arms, munitions and anything else that might be used as a defensive weapon. Pitchforks, bats and chains lined the exterior wall of the church alongside rifles and shotguns, their barrels shining in the reflective light of the flames. 

“Samuel!” Laurel called out to a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard that matched his close cropped hair. He was walking purposefully across the square, his arms filled with a collection of axes and heavy hammers. The man was broad shouldered and muscular and Michael had no doubt that in his hands the simple tools would be as effective as more elaborate weapons. 

“Laurel!” Samuel glanced down at his arms; it was obvious he would have hugged her if his hands had not already been full. “Where have you been, Peanut? Margaret and I have been worried sick.”

Laurel reached up and rested comforting fingertips on his arm. “I’m fine, the baby’s fine.” The look she gave him was the same she had so often used as a leader, one of comfort, competence and grace. “You remember Michael.”

The older man turned his attention to the archangel and his eyes went wide. “You…you were the sacrifice.”

Michael nodded but said nothing.

Samuel turned back to the woman, concern writ large over his sun-weathered features. “What’s going on, Laurel? We’re in a heap of trouble right now. That fella disappeared,” he hitched his chin toward Michael, “he was supposed to be dead. People around here think he’s the whole reason for the mess we’re in.”

“Samuel.” She still held his arm and now she gave it the lightest squeeze of reassurance. “We’ve worked together for years, we trust each other. More than that, we’re family. I need you to trust me now. Things aren’t what they seem.”

“Damn right,” the man said. “He’s not dead!”

She huffed out a little sound of humor. “Samuel, Michael is an archangel.”

If possible, the man’s eyes went even wider. “Well now,” he said, searching for words. “Well now.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Laurel continued. “And we don’t have time a long explanation, I just need you to trust that I know what I’m talking about. We’ve been lied to, Samuel, all of us here.”

He looked around nervously, watching his neighbors and friends as they collected at the church. “What are you trying to say?”

“The Celebration, the sacrifices, the voice we all hear – it’s not… _God_. It’s not our Father, Samuel. None of us wanted to think about it, none of us wanted to admit it, we all went along blindly because we were safe but we all wondered – why did people have to be sacrificed, why did our loved ones have to die?”

The older man shook his head, his arms tightening around the tools as if they were a security blanket. “No, that’s…that’s blasphemy.”

“That’s exactly what I said when I heard. But you know it’s not true. I’ve seen your eyes, Uncle Samuel. I saw them when you lost your brother. I saw them when you thought I was going to die at the Celebration. You’ve never said anything but I know you’ve always had your doubts.”

Her uncle’s brows knit together into a fierce scowl and he turned away, glaring at the ground. His breath came in short huffs through his flaring nostrils like a bull getting ready to charge. “Okay, I’ll admit it, I’ve never been one of the most devout people in Mallory, not like your father was. I don’t turn to God in times of trouble like some of my neighbors. But this town was built on the promise that the Prophet gave to us. Built on the faith of its people that _God_ was saving us from the possessed. Tell me this then – just _who_ ,” he finally spat out, the words short and pained, “or _what_ have we been following all this time?”

Michael stepped forward. “My brother, Lucifer.”

Samuel’s head snapped up and once again Laurel put out a conciliatory hand. “We’re not the only ones who have been misled,” she placated. “We think Lucifer has been at work all over the world, even before the Extermination War. It’s complicated – we think he’s the reason there _was_ a war.”

 _“Lucifer.”_ The word was like an expletive. Samuel abruptly looked ten years older, his shoulders slumped, the axes and hammers dragging at his arms. He glanced behind him at the people gathering around the church, at their already frightened faces. “Aw, Peanut, they’re not going to accept that, not most of them. You know as well as I – they’re true believers, they’ve followed what the Prophet has said since Day One.”

“Just like I was.” Laurel was emphatic. “Until my eyes were opened. Lucifer kept us secluded here for a reason – he wanted to keep us blind to the truth. We need to open their eyes, Samuel, it’s the only way to save them. To save all of us.” She pointed to the lands beyond the town. “There are eight-balls out there, not just a few dozen but _thousands_ , and they’re going to attack any minute.”

“You’re spewing a lot of fire and brimstone there, girl.” The older man frowned. “I guess…that’s what we’re talking about, isn’t it? The End Times.” Neither of the other two said anything, their earnest looks their only response. “You think he’s here in town, don’t you? Lucifer.”

“Yes,” Michael said, “somewhere in the church. I don’t know how.”

“Blasphemy,” Samuel said again, this time with more venom. “The church is a good place for good people. He has no right.”

“He’s corrupted its purpose for his own means.”

“And he wants us to protect it with our lives.”

Michael nodded. “It would be a large, final…sacrifice.”

Laurel stared up at the archangel, her hand over her mouth. “Oh, God, I never thought of that.”

“It only recently became clear to me,” Michael explained. “To benefit my brother, the sacrifices must be made willingly, blood spilled without reservation. The citizens of Mallory would willingly give themselves up to the slaughter on what they thought was Father’s word. The eight-balls would merely be the knife chosen to do the deed.”

Laurel’s face paled. This changed everything. “We can’t let that happen, not to any of them.” She pointed up the hill. “You can’t see it, Samuel, but there’s an army up on the hill up there, ready to fight against Lucifer, against the eight-balls. To fight for Mallory. Michael and I just came from them. If we can get our people to safety…” She turned toward her uncle. “There’s a chance. We have to try.”

“I know, Peanut.” He nodded his head. He’d heard the passion in her voice, the way she still referred to “our people.” Laurel may have left for a time but she would never be anything but a member of their community. “Let’s go talk to them. Maybe between the three of us, we can sort this thing out.”

Michael leaned down as they followed the older man toward the church and the rest of the townsfolk. “Peanut?” he whispered into Laurel’s ear.

The bittersweet smile on her face was evident in her voice even though she did not look up. “Samuel helped raise me after my father…died. That was his nickname for me. He’s a good man, Michael, I’m glad we ran into him first. He’s one of the elders here, people will listen to him.” Her grip tightened on the archangel’s hand. “I hope.”

The noise increased exponentially as they neared the little white church. Men, women and children bustled around in a kind of organized chaos. No one seemed to actually be in charge, one family deferring to another only on strength of character or loudness of voice. A rough perimeter had been established around the building and little else. Two hundred-odd residents looked from face to face in bewilderment and fear.

Samuel dropped the load of makeshift weapons he had been carrying and grabbed a large wooden crate filled with potatoes. He sighed as he dumped the potatoes onto the ground – this had been someone’s idea of ammunition. There was no way that they were prepared for the battle that Laurel and the archangel spoke of. 

_Thousands of eight-balls…_

He climbed up on top of the box and stuck his forefinger and thumb into his mouth. The whistle that came out was loud and shrill and got most everyone’s attention. They quickly gathered around the makeshift platform, eyes darting left and right nervously. “What is it, Samuel?” someone called.

“Laurel’s come back,” the older man shouted, making himself well heard. The crowd settled down and he was able to continue in a quieter tone. “I think we need to hear what she has to say.”

He stood down from the crate and helped the pregnant woman up, steadying her with a loose grip on her arm and well-placed hand in the center of her back. He’d had four children of his own and more than a little experience with a wobbly mom-to-be. 

From Michael’s equally attentive support on her other side, Samuel was fairly sure he had just figured out her baby’s father.

“People of Mallory!” she called out. “We don’t have very much time so I’m going to make this quick. I know that you’ve heard the call to protect the church – I heard it, too. I’ve come back to tell you that the situation is much worse than you think. It’s not just a few of the possessed out there as in times before, it’s _thousands_ of them, waiting to attack. We can’t survive against them. It’s a lost cause.”

Michael stared at her as blankly as the rest of the congregated townsfolk. This was a brutal way to make her case. After a moment of stunned silence, they erupted into shouted questions and cries: “How do you know?” “What are you talking about?” “Thousands?” “We’re all going to die!”

Laurel raised her hands in the air, pleading for their attention. “I know because I’ve been out there,” she pointed once again toward the hilltop not far away, “I’ve seen the eight-balls. I’ve also seen the army camped there to fight them. We’re not alone, we have allies, and they’re much better equipped to fight this battle than we are.”

“What about the church?” someone yelled from the group. “Father summoned us to protect the church, even if it meant our lives.”

“It _will_ mean our lives!” Laurel said emphatically, tears choking her voice. “We can’t win this!” Her eyes ran over the crowd, searching for the words, searching for the right way to destroy the very bedrock that Mallory had been built on. She knew how devastating that knowledge, that understanding could be – was now the time to do that to these people?

An immense rush of air billowed out behind her, nearly knocking her off the makeshift podium, and she stumbled to keep her footing, Samuel’s arm jutting out reflexively to grab her. At the same time, an outcry went up from the gathering, something between a gasp and an oath. Laurel spun around, following their eyes upward.

Michael hung in the air above them, backed by the gentle sunrise, his wings beating in an almost lazy rhythm to keep him suspended there. Even within the casual nature of his appearance, however, there was a tautness to his body, a sense of kinetic energy ready to be released, of inherent violence held at bay. His twin swords glinted in the first rays of the dawn.

“ _I am the Archangel Michael,”_ he announced, his voice carrying throughout the crowd without shouting, a fundamental otherworldly power that was impossible to ignore. “Many of you know me. I came to your town before, I came to know you, to live with you, to fight with you. You know now that I cannot be killed by mere steel. I am here to try to save this town and I tell you this: what Laurel says is true. If you stand against the possessed, you will be slaughtered.”

Once again the crowd went quiet except for the soft sounds of humanity. A woman held her young child to her chest, sniffing back tears. Another man stared at the ground, huffing out deep breaths, his eyes wide in disbelief. He was not alone.

One young man, tanned from time in the fields and lean from manual labor, stepped forward. He tipped his head up, facing directly toward Michael. His voice had the surly arrogance of youth and the stubbornness of a zealot. “You’re only an archangel. We get our directions from God.”

Michael took a moment to survey the group, his gaze passing to each and every one, somehow seeming to stare into their very souls. He had understood immediately what Laurel had been trying to do, to avoid the issue of the real source of the “voice” that these people heard, to focus on the problem of the horde of eight-balls and not on the reason that they were there. They both understood the psychic trauma that occurred when one’s worldview was completely upended. It was a good tactic and it may have worked, if only…

Once again, he called upon authority of the Archistrategos, his words carrying with thunderous authority. _“I come from God the Father and I tell you this – the voice you hear is not His voice, the words you hear are not His words. You have been misled by a master deceiver and if you follow this path, it will lead to the destruction of all mankind.”_

Now the silence was complete, the only sound the pop and spit of the great bonfire in the background. No one said a word as they stared at the archangel in a combination of horror and dismay.

Michael slowly lowered himself to the ground and Laurel motioned him up onto the crate beside her. He stood tall next to her yet at the same time close, and not just due to the small size of the improvised platform. One arm rested possessively on the small of her back, a united front. He looked down into her dark brown eyes. The next few seconds would tell if they were going to win or lose this particular battle.

The same young man spoke up again, his lower lip quivering. “Why should we believe you? Because you’re an archangel? Wasn’t it an archangel that got us into this whole mess in the first place? We’re _safe_ here.”

With Samuel’s assistance, Laurel stepped down from the crate and she walked the few steps over to where the speaker stood. She grasped his hands in hers. “Cash, I understand. When I first heard, when I first learned the truth, I was…I was devastated. I couldn’t believe I’d spent my whole life living a lie. The fact is, we’re not safe, we’ve never been safe, we’ve been used, subjects in a sick, sick experiment. I can’t tell you it all, not now, we don’t have time, but if we make it out alive, I promise you, Cassius, I’ll explain everything.”

Tears dripped silently down the younger man’s face. Laurel could see the terrible conflict going on within him, the fight between everything he had been raised to believe and the ingrained struggle to stay alive. 

She turned toward the rest of the group. “I know, this is so much to take on faith. I’m asking you to believe in me, just as you’ve believed in me for the last five years. You know how I feel about Mallory, that I would do anything, even die for this town. I’m telling you this: on my word of honor, everything that Michael and I have said to you is true.”

“But you left!” someone called from the back of the crowd.

“Yes,” Laurel said. “Yes, I did. I left because the voice _told_ me to leave.” Her eyes roamed around the group, filled with warmth and compassion. “I don’t think he understood how much I loved this town. I don’t think he understood that I would _come back_.”

A hush remained, pregnant with uncertainty. Finally, Samuel stepped forward. “What do you want us to do then?”

Laurel let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding in and she looked at him gratefully. “Listen to Michael, he’s…he’s got more experience that we have.”

Michael still stood on the crate and everyone’s attention immediately returned to him. “The best that you can do is to take shelter. Let the Wildcat army deal with the eight-balls. If you can find sanctuary until the battle is over, then you may survive. Find a shelter and stay there. As far away from the church as possible,” he added solemnly. “It may become a target.”

“The school,” Laurel said. “We’ll get as many as we can in there.”

“We won’t all fit,” Samuel said. “We’ll use the old dairy, its brick, too. Windows are shot, we’ll have to do what we can to board them up quick, but they’re small. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Laurel glanced back at him. “Good idea. Samuel, will you take charge of the dairy? Michael and I will take the school. I want to get all the children there.”

She didn’t have to say more. The school was more substantial, more likely to survive. The older man didn’t begrudge her the decision. “Alright, then, you hear that?” he shouted into the crowd. “Everyone get going, families with children to the school, other people to the dairy. Grab your gear and get going, we don’t have much time.”

People started to mill about slowly and Samuel walked over to where Laurel stood, his face set with a grimace that only hinted at the myriad of thoughts going through his mind. Without warning, his pulled her into a tight hug and kissed the top of her head. “Damn fools. We’re going to have to get this rodeo moving. I want you to worry about yourself and that little one, you hear me, Peanut? None of those flashy heroics you’re used to pulling.”

Laurel smiled and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. “I promise. And I have an archangel watching out for me. For us.”

Samuel face became even sterner. “He and I are going to have a little talk about that after this is all over.” He squeezed her tightly again before letting go. Laurel covered her mouth while she watched him pick up his axes and hammers and walk away, his broad shoulders set with purpose. 

Michael came up behind her, concerned. Her shoulders were shaking. “Are you cold?” he asked.

“No,” she answered, still hiding her face with her hand. Even with seriousness of the situation, she couldn’t keep the laughter out of her voice. “No, not at all. It’s my uncle. We’re in the middle of the Apocalypse, we’re probably all going to die, and he wants to talk to you about your intentions toward me.”

“My intentions are spending every day with you and our child.”

“I know.” She smiled up at him sweetly. “Let’s get through this first.” She checked the revolver on her hip. “Whether Samuel likes it or not, I’m going to need something with a little more firepower.”

Men and women started moving about, picking up some of the weapons that had been left at the church. Then they started slowly off toward the shelter buildings with a certain listlessness that spoke of their uncertainty. Michael, Laurel and Samuel all offered fervent exhortations, trying to get them to move more quickly, to get into place. It was as if many of the residents of Mallory were still deciding just who they were going to listen to, Laurel or the “voice.”

Then there was a cry that got everyone’s attention. “The fire!” a woman called, near panic. “The fire’s going out!”

Every head turned toward the bonfire at the front of the church, every eye focused on the blaze that withered even as they watched. The great flames that usually reached up to the heavens now barely tickled the top of the armature. Normally a brilliant yellow-orange, they now glowed a sullen cherry- red. 

The fire was dying.

Instantly the residents of Mallory began to throw small logs and other burnable objects onto the pyre; they’d been doing this for a very long time, they knew how to rekindle the embers when this kind of thing happened, they’d been doing it for a quarter of a century. The practice was bred into their daily lives, part of their very existence.

It did not work.

Before everyone’s eyes, the fire flickered lower and lower until there were only a few pathetic coals at the very base, more black than red, and then they, too, winked out.

“He did it,” Laurel whispered. “Lucifer let the fire go out. Our only protection and he took it away.”

Michael grasped at her elbow. “This is the beginning.” As if to punctuate his sentence, they heard a terrific _boom_ resonate from not far off. “The eight-balls are moving on the Wildcats, they’ll be here at any moment. We need to get everyone to safety.”

She nodded. “That’s it people, MOVE!” Her voice felt as loud as the Howitzer shell. “Grab the guns, grab any weapon you can carry but get to the shelters NOW!”

All around them, the people of Mallory _ran_. The cache of weapons and tools that had been collecting around the little white church was soon gone, the pleasant village square empty, families and individuals rushed down the street, over tidy lawns and through well-kept gardens, hurrying as fast as they could toward the two buildings that offered any kind of protection against the horde they knew was coming. 

For all the sense of near panic, the crowd was remarkably quiet. This was not something that was new to the people of Mallory, they had gone to ground more than once. Perhaps not this completely - certainly not the entire population – or with this sense of urgency, but the tactic had at least been practiced, something like an old-fashioned air raid drill. Laurel and Samuel led from the front while Michael took up the rear, his head constantly swiveling about, his ears searching for the tell-tale hiss, the slithering call of the possessed. 

Toward the middle of the group, a young woman carried an infant in one arm and held onto another little girl with the other hand. The frightened girl, no more than three or four, tripped and began to fall, and her mother, concentrating on shushing her baby, didn’t notice until the child had pulled her off-balance. The woman let go but it was too late and she fell awkwardly, hitting the hard-packed dirt of the road with her shoulder as she desperately tried shield the baby.

“Momma!” Her daughter rolled to her side, cradling her bloody knee while people bustled around them. The baby began to wail and the mother tried to soothe her as she painfully pushed herself up off the ground.

Michael rushed forward to bend down next to them. The woman winced as she looked up at him, the fear in her eyes edging into terror. “You’re hurt,” he said, holding out his hands. “Give me the child, then we’ll get you up.”

She nodded imperceptibly and leaned toward him, unable to do much more. Her face twisted with pain while he took the wailing infant out of her arm; the other hung useless at her side.

Michael tucked the infant up against his cheek, bouncing it ever-so-slightly. “There now,” he whispered, “there you go.” While the baby did not immediately stop crying, nonetheless the panicked note of its wailing seemed to ratchet down a notch or two. 

The archangel turned his attention toward the little girl. She looked to be fine other than the skinned knee. “What is your name?”

“Cara,” she said, her voice hitching with a sob. 

“Cara.” He smiled as if the name was the prettiest thing he’d ever heard. “Do you think you can help me get your mother up?”

The little girl bounced her head, her lip pouting out bravely. “My knee doesn’t hurt bad.” 

“You’re very brave,” he commended, then turned his attention back to her mother. It had been immediately obvious to him that the women had broken her collarbone in the fall; she had to be in tremendous pain. Her face was pale and she breathed in short huffs. He looked at her seriously, his voice low. “We need to move. I will help you up. It will hurt.” A tortured grimace and a quick bob of her head was all he got for a reply.

“Cara,” he said, “come stand next to me. I want you to hold your mother’s hand while she stands up. It is very important.” It wasn’t, it wasn’t important at all, Michael could easily lift the woman to her feet with one arm, but it gave both mother and daughter something to concentrate on, a focus. 

The little girl did as told and in a matter of moments they were all standing. “Can you walk?” Michael asked the woman. Again, her mouth twisted into a silent expression of courageous assent. 

They started once more toward the school, an old red brick building that had to have been built just after the Second World War. It seemed sturdy, however, and that was Michael’s chief concern. It also seemed defensible; small windows, few doors and he could already see a number of people up on the roof, rifles and shotguns at the ready. 

They tottered along while the rest of the town pushed on past them, men and women and children, now with a sense of urgency that hadn’t existed a few minutes before. The baby made little mewling noises into Michael’s shoulder while the woman gamely tried to hurry beside him, her short, gasping breath evidence of her considerable pain. 

Cara limped along, her hand in her mother’s once again, casting nervous backward glances. “Momma?” she said in that particularly audible child-whisper. “Where are we going?”

Her mother was still unable to speak from the pain as she hobbled along as best she could. “To the school,” Michael offered. “You’ll be safe there.”

Cara sniffed bravely. “You mean from them?” She pointed behind her.

Michael spun around, the infant still clutched in his arms. His face froze in horror. At the edge of the town, in the last shadows of the morning, he could see movement. Hundreds of shapes, large and small, seethed over the ground like a great swarm of insects, crawling and climbing, moving relentlessly forward.

_They were here._

“Run,” he said, breaking the handhold between mother and daughter. He effortlessly picked up the little girl in one arm and looked pleadingly at her mother. “Run!”

“Momma!” Cara screamed.

“Go!” her mother cried out on a broken breath. “Take them, I’ll catch up.”

Michael took no time to make the decision. He ran ahead to the school, the two children in his arms. Laurel was waiting for him outside the door, moving suddenly frantic people inside as quickly as possible. She’d seen the eight-balls at the same time he had.

Her arms were already outstretched and she took the baby without a word. Michael set Cara down and Laurel grabbed her hand. The briefest look, a split-second of silent communication, and he was off toward the girl’s mother, wings unfurling behind him.

It was only a matter of moments before he had landed again and two other people were helping to bring the young mother inside the schoolhouse, carefully supporting her between them. 

“Is that everyone?” he asked, his head swiveling around.

“I think so.” Laurel sounded only somewhat sure of herself. “No matter what, we need to bolt the door. Samuel already closed up the dairy.”

Michael took a quick look at the other brick building down the street; she was correct, the only signs of life were the half-dozen people prowling the rooftop armed with rifles. The windows had been filled with whatever could be found and he was sure that the door had been blockaded. 

They needed to do the same.

As soon as she had arrived at the school, Laurel had begun taking control, directing the people around her with the competence and calm that Michael so admired about her. The maintenance closet had immediately been ransacked and within only a few moments, the windows – those that would not be used as defensive positions – had been covered by blackboards and desktops ripped from their mounts. Every entrance was soon barricaded by desks and filing cabinets. The building was transformed from primary school to principal stronghold.

She pulled Michael aside after he had lifted a heavy cabinet onto the pile in front of the main entrance. “You’re handy to have around,” she joked, sounding a little strained, trying to hide the tension in her voice.

He nodded, unsure what to say.

“Will you head up the defenses on the roof? I don’t want to tell you what to do, but we need someone in charge there. I’ll stay down here, keep things…sane.”

He knew what she was doing, trying to appease both he and Samuel, trying to stay out of the active fight while still doing _something_ for their cause. He thought about the encroaching horde and had the terrible feeling that soon there would be no staying out of the fight for any of them. He wanted to stay with her, to stand in front of her and protect her from anything that might dare to threaten his woman and his child.

Instead he reached up and brushed a stray hair from across her face. “What do you humans say – we are a team. Yes, I will go to the roof.”

She handed him the shotgun that she had been carrying. “This is going to be more useful than your swords at a distance.”

He looked at the weapon and let out a little sigh of distaste.

She laughed. “Do you even know how to use one of these?”

His head tilted to the side. “Yes, of course. However, I prefer my fighting to be more…personal.”

“We don’t have that luxury right now.” She gave him a handful of shells, then squeezed his arm, her demeanor changing, softening. “I saw you with that baby. You’re going to be a good father.”

He pocketed the shells, reached up and cupped her face in his free hand. “That is what I am fighting for.” 

Then he pulled her in close and she wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his shoulder, tucking into him like a bird into a nest. He could feel the warmth of her body, feel the beat of her heart, feel the life that grew within her. His child, _their_ child. For one short, desperate, beautiful second, they stood there together and everything else vanished, all the noise and uncertainty and fear, the past and the future, the rest of the world. They had one perfect moment of _now_ , one moment of togetherness, of unity. 

Michael leaned down and kissed her on the top of the head. “I must go. The eight-balls won’t be distracted by the church for long. They’ll be here soon.”

She nodded and pulled herself away. When she looked up at him, her eyes sparkled with a potent combination of fear and devotion. Her hand brushed away a solitary tear and she smiled bravely.

_A very human thing._

Noma ran along the rows of quaint little houses, peering into windows, knocking on doors. “Hello? Is anybody in there? Somebody? Anybody?” Even she could hear the tone of her voice notching up from understandable concern to near panic.

_Where had they all gone?_

She’d left him behind – SHE’D LEFT ALEX BEHIND! – and now it was everything she could do not to run back to the ridiculously perfect little church and kick the damn door down with her boot. But she couldn’t, she knew she couldn’t, not only because of the FUCKING STUPID PROPHECY but because it was what Alex wanted.

_Oh, God, Alex…_

She thought she might know why, it was insane, it was impossible, it was…

_Oh, God, Alex…_

And so Noma had played the game, pretended that she’d still been on Lucifer’s side, done the only thing she could think of to give Alex any kind of help. She hoped it would be enough, hoped that it would give him a tiny bit of an advantage.

Hoped that he would even notice.

When she’d left the church _(LEFT ALEX!)_ she’d only had the mental strength to stumble out the side door and run, run away, as far from the cursed building as she could get before her heaving sobs left her out of breath and incapable of going on. She had collapsed against an ancient tree, huddling against it as if she was a child and the old oak was her mother. It was ridiculous, really - she was a higher angel, she’d never really ever _had_ a mother – still, the sturdy mass of the tree, the living bulk of it somehow seemed to convey that comfort to an overwrought celestial being. She’d sat there and quietly wept into the tree’s bark while the last of the people of Mallory walked past her, intent on following the maniacal commands of the First Archangel.

A terrific _boom_ had shocked her out of her misery, a sound she knew only too well from her service in Vega, the roar and echo of large munitions. The first blast had been followed by a second and then a third – it had started, the Wildcat war machine had arrived and they had set to work. The Last Battle had begun.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” she mumbled to herself as she ran across the street and peered into yet another seemingly abandoned home. Where was everyone? She’d expected to find them when she went back to the church, planned on joining their ranks, even though it was a suicide mission, if only to give Alex a little longer to do…whatever. “End of the world, Banks, you really didn’t have time for a private pity party.” Her head spun around and she could see the first of the eight-ball scouts as they entered the opposite end of the town, their loping, stumbling gait evident even at a distance. That hadn’t taken long. “Shit, shit, shit!”

This was getting bad. No, this was past bad. Of course she could always unfurl her wings and fly away, that was always an option and yet it was the very, very _last_ option. She wasn’t leaving Alex again, not of her own accord, not unless she absolutely had to, not unless there wasn’t any other choice, not unless she knew he was…

“Not going there,” she told herself. “No, not going there.” She ran into the middle of the street between the houses and spun around, searching. “Dammit, people, where are you?!”

Michael surveyed the top of the school building. He had nearly two dozen men and women, all decently proficiently, and a fair amount of guns and ammunition. Not as much as he would have liked; nonetheless, more than he had expected. The building itself was brick and mortar, sturdy and well built. As defensive structures it was adequate, if not stellar. There was a slightly raised edge along the top of the roof that allowed for some measure of cover, not that that was the highest priority with eight-balls who often preferred more close quarter’s fighting. 

No, Mallory’s problem was strictly defensive right now – they were going to be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Everyone on the rooftop could see the mob that was gradually making its way into the town, surging and boiling around the little church like a blob of jelly on a hot griddle. With his angelic eyesight, however, Michael could see more. He could see the rows and rows of other eight-balls that ringed the town, disconcertingly still, waiting no doubt for their master’s command.

His heart sank. There was no way these people could hold off that many eight-balls, whether the Wildcats were able to come to their defense or not. They would need a miracle to survive. 

Michael was well aware that a miracle was improbable – after all, he had been the one responsible for most miracles in days gone by.

Just then his excellent hearing picked out something from the background noise of the rapidly expanding battle, something he hadn’t expected to hear. He stood, turning slightly to locate the sound. 

Yes, there, at the end of the street. 

His mouth turned up in the corner and he called out, his voice cutting through the clamor as only an archangel’s could. “Noma! On the roof!”

Not exactly a miracle, nonetheless…

Noma stood in front of Michael, her face downturned, her hands twisting around the bundle she carried as if she was trying to pull her own fingers off. She was caught somewhere between exaltation and despair – she’d found the people of Mallory, but Michael _(MICHAEL!)_ was in charge. It was a toss-up whether she would fall to her knees in supplication or start crying in relief.

He looked at her coolly. “That is Alex’s gun belt.”

“He wouldn’t let me stay,” she started rambling immediately. “Archangel, I tried, I tried to convince him to leave and then I wanted to stay with him but he wouldn’t let me. Believe me, I –”

An imperiously raised hand cut her off. “Where is he?”

She sighed, defeated, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. “In the church. With Lucifer.”

Michael nodded. He wasn’t surprised; this was what everything had been leading to. “It is time for Alex to meet his destiny.” He recalled the latest markings that had appeared on Alex’s skin – the Three Sisters. A tiny frown passed over his face and then it was gone as if he had wished it away, a thought too painful to consider right now. He caught the glint of silver on the ring finger of her left hand, saw the pattern cut into it and recognized his brother’s intricate work. Alex’s mother’s ring. Only the Chosen One would have placed it there.

“Are you armed?” he finally said.

Noma nodded, completely confused. She’d expected to be attacked, even killed, for her role in bringing Alex to Mallory. Michael was…weird. She pulled the handgun from the back of her pants. “I have this, that’s all.”

“You’re an excellent shot.” He took the pistol from her and handed her a rifle. “I want you as sniper. Get ready, they’re almost in range.”

“Michael, what I did…” she started.

Again, he cut her off. “We were all pawns in Lucifer’s game, Noma. That is not our present concern. If we make it through this day, we may discuss it further. First, we need to survive.”

That certainly was true. “Yes, Archangel. Where do you want me?”

He pointed to a corner. “That will give you the best line of sight. Talk to the others, make sure you have enough ammunition.”

She nodded silently, blew out a breath and threw her shoulders back, focusing her mind. 

_Time to kick some eight-ball ass._

_Outside Mallory_

The hilltop rang with the heady mix of excitement and fear that accompanied the opening salvo of any attack, commands and bellows and oaths combined with the clatter of weapons and the deafening roar of munitions. Mouse was coordinating strikes downfield with the heavy artillery while the ground troops met the first wave. Jenkins already had his hands full. 

Gabriel launched himself into the sky, the better to survey the battle below. Smoke and the smell of explosives drifted into the air even as the sun tipped up over the edge of the horizon. He could see the waves of eight-balls, the hundreds – no, the _thousands_ – ready to back up the throngs rushing toward the Wildcat encampment. 

_There were so many._

Time then for his part of the battle plan, his contribution to the campaign. Without another thought, he beat his mighty wings, creating a great rush that swirled around him, a vortex of air. When it had reached the perfect crescendo, he let forth the Voice of the Messenger of God.

_“LEGION!”_

The call went out, an inescapable, inexorable sound that rushed across the surface of the earth for a hundred miles, like a bullhorn and an anthem and a bellow and an explosion all wrapped onto an arrow to the heart.

They came forth, from the valleys and the mountaintops, from the tops of trees and the depths of forests, from within shattered buildings and under broken bridges, from miles around they came…

The higher angels came forth. Those who had had followed Gabriel in the past and regretted their actions and those who had sworn off the Extermination War and regretted their inactions. The higher angels who could no longer afford their complicity or their complacency, whose consciences would not allow their passivity. Gabriel had sought them out over the last months, found them in their hiding places all over the globe, found them and convinced them of the absolute necessity of the war that they were about to fight. Whether they fought to redeem themselves or to save themselves, he did not care, as long as they were willing to fight.

Their wings filled the sky, hundreds of them, darkening the horizon that had only just begun to glow in the early morning. The dawn limned their swords in rose gold, their armor in shades of orange and pink. The air vibrated with the strum of a million aurora-colored quills.

“Janeck!” Gabriel called into the mass of eight-balls, into the very center of the maelstrom of the possessed. It might be futile, but something within him told him he had to try. “Listen to me! I don’t know what Lucifer promised you, but I will tell you this – it was a lie. He’s not going to bring Father back, there’s no going back to Eden, there’s no happy ending. I’ve lived that delusion and I know – it’s not possible.”

A single black shape arose from the midst of the teeming mass. The angel flew lazily toward them, his long coat flapping behind him, his wild hair even more unruly than ever before. 

Janeck hung in the air fifty meters away, far enough that he would have room to maneuver, close enough that the archangel could see the insolent look of fearlessness in his eyes. “Lucifer said you’d say something like that.”

“Did he tell you that I would say that I don’t want to fight you? Did he tell you that?”

For a moment, Janeck was taken off guard. Gabriel went on.

“For all you drove me to drink, Janeck, you were my comrade, my brother-in-arms. Our war was…ill chosen…but that does not lessen the experience. We fought together, we bled together, we lost our brothers and sisters together. I don’t want to lose you to Lucifer’s egomaniacal delusions. There’s no winning this war. In the end, there’s only dying.”

It was the wrong tactic. Janeck visibly bristled, his hands curling into fists, his lip twisting up at the corner. “We were not _together_ , Gabriel, we were not comrades. We were cannon fodder to you, all of us, eight-balls and higher angels alike. Lucifer _cares_.” His hand went to his waist and he pulled his sword, raising it high over his head. “He cares about _ALL_ of us!”

A terrible chill ran down Gabriel’s spine and he watched in silent horror as the ranks of eight-balls, what he had _thought_ were ranks of eight-balls, spread their hidden wings and took to the sky. Thousands of higher angels, more than he had thought still lived, more than he thought _existed_ , swarmed into the air. Their black wings beat the air until it felt as if there was a great wind whipping through the valley, a sirocco of malevolent intent.

For a few seconds, Janeck’s face went slack, his eyes falling into a kind of euphoric passivity, the unmistakable warning sign of a communion with Lucifer. Then, just as suddenly, he snapped back. “Everything is working out as Lucifer planned, Gabriel. All the pieces are in place.”

“What are you talking about, Janeck?” Gabriel’s voice was not the forceful tenor of the Messenger of God but the fearful cry of a father, a sibling, a friend. “What pieces? Who are these angels? _What are you talking about_?”

In answer, Janeck rose in the air, the vast formation of rogue higher angels arrayed behind him. “Brother and sisters,” he called out, sounding as bored as if he were ordering a sandwich from a lunch counter. “Attack.”

They came forward, wave after wave, a roiling, churning cloud of wings and swords and murderous rage. The last thing Gabriel saw before a trio of higher angels fell upon him was Janeck hanging in the sky, his head tipped to the side, his open-palmed hand twisting back and forth in a parody of hello.

The same mocking gesture that Gabriel had made to Michael at the Jubilee.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like a soundtrack for this story, there are a number of titles that I have on my mental playlist, but one in particular that is simply too perfect for the battle scene. Coincidentally called “Furious Angels” (yes, it WAS a coincidence) the links are below. My thanks to Rob Dougan for the inspiration. Check out his work.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pt8_1vZ_0w4 Instrumental (listen all the way to the end)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VHMDeNyxFBg With lyrics

***********************************************************************

Chapter 13

_Mallory_

Alex stared after Noma, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, his shoulders rising and falling with carefully controlled breath. Now was not the time to lose his cool, now was not the time to let loose the torrent of emotions that washed through him like a tsunami. Finally he turned back toward Lucifer. “You wanted to talk?” He shrugged out of his leather jacket and threw it on one of the nearby pews. “Let’s talk."

Lucifer was once again the model of concern. “My dear nephew, I sense you are less than at ease. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Believe me, I was only trying to eliminate the distractions so that we could have a true heart-to-heart. I know you don’t see it, but we’ve so much in common. I think when you get to know me a little better, you’ll come to realize that.”

It took all of Alex's self-control to keep from rolling his eyes. “You’re an archangel. The _first_ archangel. You were created by God, you’re basically immortal. We… we don’t have that much in common.”

Lucifer’s face lit up. “That’s just it, we do! Please, come sit.” He motioned to one of the pews and sat down, everything done with a liquid grace that Alex could only watch with a kind of mild jealousy. “I’m sorry,” Lucifer continued, “I don’t have anything to eat or drink. I should have thought of it, you haven’t broken your fast.”

“I’m fine.” Alex shrugged and sat down heavily a few feet away. “For some reason, I’m not really that hungry.”

The archangel leaned forward. “Your journey here hasn’t been easy, I know that. Your life has been difficult and you’ve been mistreated and lied to time after time. I understand why it’s difficult for you to trust anyone. I understand because I feel the same way.”

“I doubt that.”

“Alex, you’ve been used, betrayed or abandoned by nearly everyone you’ve ever known.” Lucifer gave a self-conscious little laugh. “ _That_ I think I can understand.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Lucifer looked at him without rancor, more like a teacher trying to explain a difficult concept to a student. “I understand it’s a painful subject, but let us look at things rationally. We’ll start with your father. Gabriel left you before you were even born and then he took your mother away from you, twice! First he had Noma put a sword through her chest and then – most ingeniously but also quite selfishly I might add – he saved her life and stashed her away where no one knew about her. He kept your mother from you when you needed her most.”

Alex’s shook his head. “Gabriel didn’t know, he didn’t know I was his son.”

“No, he didn’t, because he never bothered to ask her about it. Instead, your father decided that you were the answer to all of his problems, that your death would put right everything that was wrong with his world. Tell me, Alex, does that not sound somewhat familiar?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Of course not, but honestly, how many others can understand you like I can? How many others have had an archangel hunting them, searching for them, looking to destroy them for simply existing?”

Alex nearly launched himself from the pew. “We’re _not_ the _same_!”

“I’m not saying we are. Only that we share experiences few others can relate to.” Lucifer sighed. “But you are correct, we’re not the same. You’ve been abandoned by more than one father. First Gabriel, then Jeep.” He frowned, marring his elegant brow. “You were so young.”

“Jeep thought he was doing what was best for me.”

“Did he? Or was raising someone else’s child while trying to decipher Father’s last words too much for him.” The archangel gave a mournful shake of his head. “I heard what happened to him – his isolation, the obsessive scribblings on the walls, the drinking. Madness has touched so many around you, Alex. I wondered if Jeep ever truly recovered.”

“He loved me.” Alex’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“He loved your mother, unrequited as it was, so in some way I imagine he loved you.” Again the shake of the head, the concerned look. “You learned only too well from him when it came to love, didn’t you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re my nephew, Alex. I wanted to watch out for you. I couldn’t be there to help, to advise you, all I could do was hear the stories.”

“What stories?” Alex was getting angry again, feeling like his personal life was being slowly dissected on a table. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard about Claire – a lovely girl, I don’t blame you a bit – but let’s be candid, she used you. I’m sure you can see that now. There may have been some love there once, certainly not enough to keep her from making a political marriage. Not enough to keep her faithful to you as soon as you were gone for a week or two. Not enough to keep your unborn child safe.”

Alex felt as if he had been gut-punched. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Don’t I?” The archangel’s green eyes were quite cold now. “Someone you love. Someone you cherish…turning on you? I saw your eyes when Noma left. Quite the little minx, isn’t she? If Michael and Gabriel were here, I’d have you talk to them, let them tell you how many times she’s changed sides, switched allegiances. She’s a pro, Alex. We’ve all used her at one time or another to get what we wanted. She got you here, didn’t she? I really hope you haven’t fallen too hard for her, that’s not what I wanted.”

The Chosen One felt as if the floor had lurched up beneath him. At the same time a subtle droning sound started up inside his skull. His face flushed red and he felt sick, his breath came fast and shallow as he stumbled back to the pew and fell onto it, cradling his head in his hands.

_No, not now, not now. Get control!_

He could feel warmth spreading across his chest and down his arms beneath his shirt and he squeezed his head tighter, as if trying to push the heat back inside.

_Not now!_

Then he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, a comforting touch. “Oh, Alex, I’m so sorry. I hadn’t realized. You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

It was impossible to speak, to respond at all. _Now was not the time._ Alex kept his head down, concentrating on his breathing, on his control, even as Lucifer went on.

“Nephew, I’m sorry. I told you, I have no desire to do you harm. If I had known this would hurt you this way…” He tightened his grip on Alex’s shoulder. “I'm so very sorry, I only wanted to get you here, I had no idea how far she’d go.”

Alex still refused to say anything, bent over on the pew, the picture of misery.

“I only hope that you can understand why I felt it necessary to go to such lengths – I needed to tell you _my_ side of the story. I know that Michael has been influencing you for years now, filling your head with tales, molding you into his ideal little soldier. His weapon. I have to tell you, Alex - he’s been using you, too. He knows that the markings hold great power and he wants that power for himself. When he couldn’t find a way to use them, when Jeep couldn’t, he knew that you were the next option.”

“No,” Alex croaked out, “that was Gabriel.”

“That was _both_ of them! They’re twins, Alex, they’re more alike than they are different. They like to pretend that they’re two sides of a coin when at their core they’re just the same. Is it any wonder that Gabriel was successful as a warrior? That Michael could help guide nations? They share more in common than they care to admit.” 

Finally raising his head, Alex could see the empathy, the concern painted on Lucifer’s faultless features. 

“Michael and Gabriel may have had different agendas,” the archangel continued, “but they both wanted to use you for their own purposes.”

“That’s not true. Michael was trying to help humanity, not himself.”

“I know that is how it appeared.” Lucifer came and sat next to Alex. “That’s how Michael wanted it to appear. If you look deeper, however, you’ll see there was more to it. Think about the society that he helped build in your hometown, in Vega. A system of castes where the few lorded over the many and the privileged controlled the masses. No different than the echelons of the angels, no different than the hierarchy of command that Michael himself ruled over for eons. He wanted to bring the same system to all of humanity, to institute that same hierarchy and put himself and his followers at the top, and you would be the weapon that would make it happen.”

Alex stared at the floor. “I don’t believe you.”

“I know, it’s quite a bit to take in. You don’t have to believe me.” He paused, thoughtful. “I do want you to do one thing. I want you to think about your time with Michael. I want you to think about when you were there for him and when he was there for you. _Was_ he there for you, Alex? Was he there for you when you needed him? Or was he suddenly missing when you needed him the most?”

Unwanted memories flooded back on Alex, visions of Becca lying dead on the floor and Michael standing there with his blade drawn, a look in his eyes that Alex had never seen before…

…thoughts of how he had felt so abandoned, so alone back at the Arsenal when Michael had been spending all of his time with Laurel. 

Other times when Michael had worked him for hours and hours until Alex had sprawled on the ground near tears, his head pounding, shaking from the strain of trying to decipher the markings, of finding their hidden secrets…

…training to near exhaustion, testing the limits of both his mind and his body, time after time after time, just he and Michael. The Archangel and his protégé.

_The General and his weapon._

Alex shook his head but he stayed silent. He had nothing to say.

_Outside Mallory_

There was both an energy and a stillness that radiated from the great horse, Freyja. Jenkins gave a quick pat to her neck and a gentle kick at her sides to move out and she immediately set to a brisk trot. He’d had some experience riding her – Charlotte had become an expert over the years and she had insisted that he learn, too. His first lessons had been a series of mishaps, misadventures and downright hilarities, at least from Charlotte’s point of view, but the horse, for all her incredible size and strength, was a patient soul. Eventually, Jenkins had become, if not expert, at least skilled. Skilled enough to pull off that little rearing stunt.

_Showing off for the troops…or the girl?_

Now, in the midst of what was becoming increasingly bedlam, he was grateful for the mare’s calming presence. The sheer mass of her beneath him, the steady grace of her gait as she wended her way through the corps of soldiers was like a shot of whiskey to his nerves. She was so well trained that he had only to shift his weight and adjust his legs to change her direction and speed, her reins an unnecessary addendum.

Which was good, because he had a shotgun in a holder on one side of her saddle and a sword on the other side on his hip. He had a semiautomatic pistol on one side of his belt and Charlotte’s Colt 1911 on the other. If it came down to using that, things were in sorry shape indeed, but he wasn’t going to go into this battle without it.

Then again, he felt a little like a western outlaw, armed to the teeth and ready to ride into a shootout at the OK Corral. Much more that than the gallant knight Mouse seem to see him as. 

_Dammit, man, stop day dreaming about fairytales and adventure stories, there’s a damn war on!_

Voices rang in his helmet and he set his mind to sorting them out. Without Michael to assist here, he was in charge of all the ground troops, both infantry and artillery. The latter had already started, shelling the black-eyed horde at the base of the hill, and the earth shuddered with the impacts. The first company had already made its way forward and were engaged with the enemy.

Freyja whickered with excitement as Jenkins drew his sword. This was in her blood.

_Outside Mallory_

Commander Marissa Mastroianni grabbed at the chair in front of her as the truck they were in shook once again. The occasional heavy jouncing wasn’t unexpected given their battle strategy and could make standing a challenge. Anything larger than a pen had been securely bolted down inside the mobile C&C.

That said, she was not the type to sit.

Outside, the sound of exploding mortar rounds and 155mm shells rolled across the landscape like a spring thunderstorm, a constant rumble that shook the truck even when the ground was steady and reverberated deep within her chest.

The sound of battle.

Her eyes darted over the screens in front of her while she listened to four conversations at once. They had limited ELINT – electronic sources of intelligence that would actually be useful at this close of a range. Radar and FLIR were good for showing gross movements and trends, helpful for sighting their heavy armaments, for pointing those bombs. Eventually, however, her own soldiers would be face-to-face with the enemy and the big guns would do more harm than good.

The Wildcats also had two smaller drones in the air that gave a clear and yet remarkably frustrating view of a battle that she could only watch from a distance. With the drones, she could see the havoc that the heavy artillery was causing – the yawning craters, the mangled, broken bodies of the eight-balls, the absolute carnage of what had yesterday been a pristine, beautiful landscape. 

And they’d only been fighting for a few minutes. Inwardly, she sighed. One way or another, she would be relieved when the fighting was finally over. Even though she might be a career soldier, she had become weary of war.

Her dark eyes caught a flicker of something on the edge of the FLIR readout – the thermal imaging system that could “look” into the trees that surrounded the battleground to find warmer-than-usual areas, spots that glowed like specters on the screen. The eight-balls had lit up the sensors the day before, wave after wave of them boiling out of the forest as if they had risen from the cold ground. No one was really sure how they had stayed hidden until then – Michael thought it might have to do with something called stasis – they had simply, suddenly been then.

Now, there, again! Mouse jabbed a finger at the screen. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” she asked the technician seated in front of her.

“That’s not wildlife,” the tech responded, tapping at her keyboard to get a clearer focus. “Shit, there’s more of them! Where did they come from?” 

The ghostly glow on the screen grew and spread, dozens – then hundreds – of shapes moving toward the bright heat signature of Mallory. 

“From the Gates of Hell for all I know,” Mouse snapped off. She turned toward another one of the techs. “FDC, we’ve got less than a minute to get between them and the town. Michael doesn’t need any more company than he’s got. Compute and have the Paladin fire for effect.”

She could already feel the rumble of the nearly-40 ton M109 Howitzer turning far up the hillside, its twin caterpillar treads churning up the soil as it moved into position to fire, readying its 155mm gun to rain down its own version of Judgement Day. 

“I’ll send you bastards right back to where you came from,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving the screen.

_Outside Mallory_

They fell upon Gabriel’s legions in twos and threes, striking them from the sky like lightening, sending them tumbling through the air before weapons had even been drawn. Never before had angel warred upon angel like this, in these numbers.

Gabriel had his sword out only fractionally before three of Lucifer’s warriors were upon him, giving him scarcely enough time for one desperate parry and an off-balance thrust as he fell sideways through the sky. He felt the first strike fall against his chest plate – a serious blow if he hadn’t been wearing it – and threw up a gauntleted arm just in time to catch a second. Shock soon gave way to anger, then to murderous wrath and any thoughts he had had of mercy were swept away with a great slash of empyrean steel.

Even outnumbered, Gabriel had more than a few advantages. The first, of course, was the best fighting instructor in all of history. He and Michael had been sparring since almost the dawn of time, their contests often ending in a draw, both nearly prostrate with the effort and neither willing to admit defeat. He channeled every one of those exhilarating, exhausting, precious days, remembering all that his brother had taught him.

And then last twenty five years had been spent honing that fight craft. Even Michael had been surprised by his brother’s recent prowess.

_Unfortunately._

The rogue angels around him were also surprised, surprised by how quickly they turned from attackers to victims, how their own tactics soon proved almost infantile against him...

...how soon they fell.

Lastly, Gabriel had with him a blade that even by his own modest appraisal was one of the best he had ever crafted. It sang through the air, finding its victims with almost unerring accuracy, slicing through fabric, skin, muscle and bone as if they were the softest of fruit. Had the bloodlust not thrummed through his veins, had his heart not screamed with both self-preservation and rage, the sight would have been disturbing in its superlative gore. Balanced to perfection, it felt an extension of himself, his arm tipped in razor-sharp steel, slashing and swirling as he dived down upon his foes.

The angels of his legion fared less well, having neither the knowledge nor the experience Gabriel had gleaned over the last quarter-century, yet that did not diminish their fervor. They seemed to be looking to pay for their absence now, with their blood if need be, certainly with their enthusiasm. More than a few of them entered into the fray above Mallory only to find themselves soon cartwheeling through the air, wings broken or severed, unable to continue the battle that they had only finally deigned to join.

_Outside Mallory_

Mouse wiped the sweat out of her eyes and repositioned one of her headsets. Inside of the mobile command, it was starting to feel like a sauna. The truck was armored and sealed up tight and surrounded by its own platoon. The only things that were currently getting in and out were radio transmissions, even the air was being filtered and recirculated. 

That said, all of the computers, displays, radios and other equipment added up to put out a helluva lot of heat. Mouse had dropped her jacket early on and wore only a t-shirt and gun belt on top of her BDU pants. The way she figure it, if the truck got hit hard enough to damage it, the flak vest wasn’t going to do her a lot of good – she’d be dead already.

The gun belt stayed because she felt naked without it. That was just a fact.

One of the drone operators called out from midway down the row of screens. “I’ve got movement, ma’am. Looks like they might be breaking off and taking a column toward our rear.”

Mouse moved over to see the video for herself, then switched her radio to the “private” band that they had set up for the archangels, Jenkins and herself. “Gabriel,” she called. “Can you check something out for me?”

Her earpiece crackled with random noise. Eventually the archangel’s voice could be heard. “Not…the best of times,” he grumbled. “Tad…busy.”

While the radar showed hundreds of shapes in the air over Mallory, it was impossible to know just whom they belonged to or how the battle was going. The sarcastic reply was good but the fact that Gabriel couldn’t take the time to answer was not. She didn’t like that at all.

Jenkins called in her left ear and she tipped her head slightly that direction. He would have heard her call to the archangel. “What’s the trouble?”

“Drone shows they may be trying to flank us on the south and come at our rear, sir. I was looking for confirmation.”

“Consider it confirmed, Commander. Use First Platoon, they’ve been waiting.”

“Yes, sir, that was my plan.”

“Give the medical units the heads-up just in case.”

“Also in the plan.”

“I knew it would be. Carry on.”

She switched to the other channel and had Mayweather on the line almost immediately. The First Platoon leader had been not-so-patiently waiting for his orders. The Wildcat First Platoon wasn’t accustomed to sitting on the sidelines, they were used to being front and center, the first to go in, the last to leave, called upon to do the most dangerous, the wildest, the most daring of all missions.

As Mouse should well know – she’d been a part of the unit for the last three years.

In this case, they’d been held in reserve for exactly this kind of situation. She quickly gave them the rundown and the coordinates. Mayweather had nearly the same contingent that he had had when they had rescued Alex’s downed chopper outside of Vega. It was only a matter of seconds before the drone picked up the line of trucks, SUV’s, and other assorted vehicles and she could see them on their way to intercept the eight-ball advance.

A grin split her face as she vicariously enjoyed their charge.

_Vega_

A monstrous reverberation rolled through the underground control room, something between a roar and an earthquake, perhaps a combination of them both. The floor shook, desks bounced about and several of the ceiling tiles fell from above, just barely missing the squad of Wildcats currently at their posts.

Commander Holt stumbled against the table in the center of the room and laid both palms against it, steadying both it and himself. His wide eyes scanned the room, seeing expressions that mirrored his own.

The quaking stopped as abruptly as it had begun. “Everybody alright?” he barked. Heads nodded, more of a courtesy than anything else. He caught the eye of one of the communications officers. “Find out what the hell that was.” Then he looked up at the Vega resident at the other end of the table. “Any ideas?”

“I don’t think it was natural, didn’t feel like it. Had to be a blast of some kind.” Ethan stepped to the side and brushed dust out of his hair. He’d made the mistake of taking his helmet off when he had arrived in the big room – he hated hats of any kind – but now it might be time to put the dreaded thing back on. “We’re three floors down, it was pretty close or pretty big.”

Holt shook his head. He wasn’t comfortable here, he didn’t like being sequestered away from the fighting in what was essentially an office. Nonetheless, this was what had been decided. The old casino counting room was perfect for their purposes, it even had an independent electrical supply, and they had managed to jury-rig a manageable war room with communications, data and even an old-fashioned map table. Holt pulled on his close-cropped beard as he scanned the oversize drafts in front of him. David Whele had come through more than anyone had expected and now colored pins and movable markers showed the locations of the Wildcat troops over half a dozen city plans and drawings. Whele and Vega Command had identified the most porous areas; those were now either fortified or guarded. Still, explosives could make quick work of sandbags, bulwarks and patrols.

Another blast rumbled through the ground, this one weaker but nonetheless alarming. “I’ve got word from upstairs,” one of the comm officers yelled over his shoulder, holding the earphones tight to hear over the noise. “The eight-balls abandoned their convoy about a klick out but the vehicles kept coming in. They’re ramming the walls, looks like they might be loaded with fuel.” He dropped his hands and turned toward Holt and Mack, his eyes huge. “They say there’s at least fifty buses and trucks out there. If they all do the kamikaze thing…”

“They’ll breach the walls for sure,” Holt finished for him.

There was a quick succession of three smaller thuds, seemingly further away. “That’s the wall guns,” Ethan said. “They’ll take out the buses before they hit the walls.”

Before Holt could answer, another comm officer shouted. “Commander! We’ve got hostiles in the tunnels under the Sahara. And…the Wynn.” She pressed her earpiece to her head. “And the Convention Center – they’re coming out of nowhere!”

“Goddammit!” Holt slammed his fist down on the table, jostling the tiny markers on the maps. “They got in before we knew about it! Shit! Get me a count on those hostiles, I want to find out if we’re talking a diversion or a legitimate second front. And get reports from all other sectors, we may have other problems we don’t know about yet.” 

He looked up at Vega officer. “You still sure you made the right choice coming down here?”

“Exploding buses or invisible eight-balls? Yeah, I think so.” He stared at the maps. “I don’t mean to contradict you, but I don’t think they got in early. The eight-balls, I mean. Look at these places, they’re are all on the same side of town. I think they’re infiltrating, not coming out of hiding and I think I know how.” Ethan pointed to a network of lines running across one of the maps. “Whele is good, he knows his shit, but he’s still thinking like a V-6. See these? Those aren’t tunnels, they’re old storm sewer lines, big enough for a person to move through. He would know about those but he probably ignored them because a lot of them have been blocked off since we don’t use that part of the old city. What he _doesn’t_ know is that people busted through the blockades years ago. Some of the V-1’s and V-0’s used to live in them, you know, before the civil war. It was really dangerous when the rains came, I almost drowned one time.”

Holt looked at him, at the sharp, accomplished officer bent over the table and said nothing. Their lives had been so very, very different.

“The outlets are miles away, outside the city,” Ethan continued, “If somehow they found out that we’d discovered their other routes, if they’re using these instead…” He left off, already searching the maps for other, similar areas.

“Alright. Mack, I want you to identify every one of these points of access that you can find. We’re going to send a squad there to seal them up. If our people find any activity, we can send back up. I give you authority to deploy them as you see fit and I want it done yesterday.” The commander rubbed his forehead while another blast rumbled through the room. “Talk about closing the damn barn door after the horse has gotten out.” 

He glanced over at the comm officer again. “Have you gotten an update from Helena or New Haven yet?”

“Yes, sir, just in. Helena is seeing widespread incursion. Commander Miravich says they are spread thin but holding, locals are assisting. New Haven has four areas of attack so far. More expected. The refinery has some damage, there’s a fire.” She turned around. “Commander Crothers said to watch your own ass, he would watch his. That’s a quote, sir.” 

Holt’s mouth quirked up on the side. That sounded exactly like his best friend. “Jackass’s got it easy.”

_Outside Mallory_

Raphael stared at her hands for a moment, then ripped off the latex gloves, threw them in the nearby can and reached for a new pair. She was aware of both the paucity of supplies as well as the possibilities of cross-contamination. She was also aware that this battle was producing far too many gravely wounded soldiers. At some point it the near future, contamination was going to be the least of their worries.

The Wildcat medical staff had been split into three details – triage, urgent care and surgery. No one who could still wield a gun or sword would bother seeking aid, not in this battle, so the field around the three medical buses was filled with only the seriously injured. The doctors and med techs rushed around, offering what aid they could, occasionally covering a prone figure with a sheet. Stifled moans and muted cries mixed in with the sounds of war from not far away.

Raphael had understandably been assigned to the surgical unit and had just finished her third abdominal wound. The work was necessarily fast, brutal and not exactly pretty. She was there to save lives, not to create works of art, yet she did what she could for them. A bowel resection was one thing, a colectomy was something completely different. In her mind, she mentally listed the names of all of her patients – if things worked out later, she would revisit them and see what she could do to make their lives more comfortable. If they all survived.

And yet…and yet in the midst of it all, in the midst of the blood and the battle, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. A sense of dedication, of honor. Lucifer had tried to give that to her yet it had been a sham, a farcical call to duty. This, _this_ was her calling, her true purpose – she was a _healer._ There was no way that she could ever make up to Gabriel, to Alex for the chaos she had sown, no way that she could repay Michael for the wounds she had given him. This, however, was her penance, her atonement and her – dare she say it – her joy. She would work unceasingly until the very end, until the time came when she had to put down her scalpel and pulled out the shotels she had set on the shelf nearby. 

She took a moment to stretch, scanning the ranks of the injured and the growing rows of covered bodies. Additional transports rolled up, bringing in even more.

As another battered soldier was wheeled into her surgery, she thought again how she so very much hated war.

_Mallory_

Lucifer stood and walked over toward the altar and contemplated the mural that covered the front wall of the church. He gazed up at it almost lovingly. “You know, Alex,” he finally said, “we’re really not that different. You and I, we’re here because we care. We care about the world, we care about the people. That’s what I’ve been doing here, protecting the people.”

“By creating a war with the lower angels?” Alex threw his hands up in disgust. “And what about the sacrifices? Michael told me about them, the people that killed themselves here in your name. How is that _protecting_ them?”

For a tense moment, the silence in the church was like a living thing, artificially filling the little space more than it should have. Alex could almost feel it pushing against his skin. It made him all too aware that he was missing whatever was going on outside.

Lucifer turned around. “We’ve already discussed the war,” he said coolly. “You know that was Gabriel’s doing.”

“I know he was the one to open the Seventh Seal. Why he did it is still up to debate.”

The First Archangel shrugged. “He’s your father, you don’t want to think the worst of him.” He gave a sardonic little laugh. “Believe me, I understand that.” 

“Then what about the killings, the – what did they call it – the Celebration? You had people killing themselves for you, right here in this church.”

“The Celebration, yes.” Lucifer’s head tipped just a bit to the side and a tiny, sad smile flickered across his perfect mouth. “You understand sacrifice, don’t you, Alex? Giving up something – or everything – for someone else. You’ve done it. For Claire and your child, wasn’t it? And your mother, she was an excellent example, willing to give up her life for you not only once, but twice. Amazing woman.”

“Don’t talk about my mother.”

“I understand. One feels almost guilty when another is willing to give so much.”

Alex choked back tears he had sworn not to shed. “She loved me.”

“Yes, she did. More than life itself.” His eyes roved over the empty pews, seeing them as they had been in the past, filled with the men and women of Mallory. “The people you’re talking about, the people who took part in the Celebration, they had that same kind of love. _‘Greater love than this no man hath, that a man lay down his life for his friends._ ’” He shrugged again. “That comes from an old book, you’re probably not familiar with it, and people don’t read it much these days.”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Then you know what I’m talking about. Those people, those brave, brave people, gave up everything to protect their friends, their families, their brothers and sisters. They sacrificed themselves for the greater good. You understand that, you understand sacrifice, Alex, it’s part of your essence. It’s part of you, it’s what makes you the Chosen One.”

Alex closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to calm the churning emotions inside. 

When he opened his eyes again, Lucifer was standing in front of him, his hand outstretched. The simple straight dagger lay across his palm.

“If I told you that you could save all of mankind, Alex, if I told you that with one act you could save all of humanity, would you do it? Would you sacrifice yourself for them, Alex? Would you?”

_Mallory_

Noma sat down on the roof of the school, checking the bolt-action rifle Michael had given her. It was an old Lee-Enfield with a box magazine, a solid, quality gun. Not new, not flashy. She quickly sighted along the barrel and checked the action – it had been regularly maintained, that was good – and looked recently fired and cleaned. There were even extra charger clips for quick reloading.

She glanced over her shoulder at the crowd of eight-balls as they shambled around the far edges of the town. Not much time now. 

There were two boxes of ammunition lined up against the wall, two precious cases of the .303 caliber bullets that the rifle used. She wondered for a moment how long someone had been hording those, how long they had been saving them and under what conditions. 

“Like it really makes any difference if it explodes in your hands,” she mumbled under her breath, feeding the first charger of five bullets into the magazine and ejecting the clip. “Just as much chance of that happening as getting out of this alive.”

All around her, men and women took up position with shotguns and pistols. A young teen girl appeared with a bucket full of kitchen knives while another boy, barely out of childhood, walked by with a bow and quiver of arrows. Michael directed everyone as they approached, lining the rooftop with a double row of defenses – one high and one low, to attack in sequence or in tandem, but never to stop. “Hold your fire for my command,” he raised his voice to be heard above the growing commotion in the distance. “We cannot waste ammunition.”

The townsfolk readied themselves quickly, hurrying to the positions that the archangel gave them. If nothing else, Noma thought, Michael was an excellent military commander and they seemed used to taking orders.

Michael spied the bucket of knives and a pleased look spread across his face. “Give those to me,” he said, his voice a purr of anticipation. “I will make good use of them.” 

“Of course.” The girl handed them over and wrapped her arms around herself, looking small and frightened and at the same time as courageous as she could possibly be. “It’s all I could think of, I didn’t know what else to do. I – I don’t want to stay downstairs, I want to help.”

He flashed her the tiniest of smiles, appreciating her bravery. “These will be excellent weapons, thank you. And I have a task for you, a very important task. Noma!” he called.

Noma looked up and saw the girl standing beside Michael, saw the briefest interrogatory rise of his brow and instantly understood. They’d been in far too many battles together to need words to communicate. She grinned. “Come ‘ere, kid! You’re going to be my reloader.”

It only took Noma half of a clip before the girl grabbed it from her hands. “Give me that,” she said impatiently, taking the box of the bullets and deftly filling the rest of the clip. “Like this? Up, down, up?”

Noma nodded; the girl had caught on quickly and the ammunition was properly place and ready to go. “Here’s another one. If you can do that while I shoot, we’ll take down a shitload of them.” She put the rifle up on the edge of the roof parapet and again sighted down the barrel. It was only a matter of seconds now, they could see a line of eight-balls only a few houses away. “What’s your name?”

“Althea.”

“I’m Noma. How old are you?”

“Thirteen.” The girl fit another clip and then let out an explosive breath; the stress had been building up inside her for a while. “God, I _hate_ them. I hate eight-balls, I hate angels, I hate them all.” She grimaced. “Except for him, obviously.” She threw a nervous glance over her shoulder at Michael. “I guess.”

Noma breathed in and out through her nose, relaxing herself, steadying her body. The stress had been building up for her, too, but she needed to be calm now, focused on the task at hand. She glanced over at Althea and winked. “We’re not all bad, kid.” 

Althea stared at her bug-eyed. “You…you’re…you…” She couldn’t seem to get the words out.

Noma pulled herself away from the sight of the rifle and laughed. It felt good to laugh, even if it was about something as ridiculous as this. “Sure am.”

“But he’s…”

“Kinda scary?’

“Yeah.”

“And I’m not?”

The girl winced, as if she wasn’t sure if she’d insulted Noma or not. She nervously pushed back the wisps of hair that had come loose from her braid and now fell into her face. 

Noma smiled. “Listen, we all can be kinda scary when we’ve got something to fight for. He’s got a lot to fight for. So do I. You got anything to fight for?”

Althea nodded. “My little brother. He’s downstairs.”

“Okay, Althea.” Noma lined up the sights of the rifle once more, steadying the barrel as she picked out her first target. “Let’s be scary together.”

_Outside Mallory_

The sun had risen into the clear blue sky but the air over the hilltop and the town of Mallory was dark with wings. Higher angels lunged and dived, tangling in the air and plunging downward. Swords flashed, fly-by attacks of such grace and speed that the victim hardly knew they had been wounded until they tried to use the offended limb and found it injured – or missing. Shrieks of rage and of pain rang out like so many birds of prey.

The angel Aban was one of these fighters. A skilled combatant, nonetheless she had excused herself from the Extermination War, her heart unable to choose a side. A few weeks ago, Gabriel had found her with a dozen other of the Powers in an abandoned village outside of Jerusalem. They’d gone back to where things had made sense to them, they said, back to where they knew right from wrong, back to where life had been simpler. 

He’d told them that he understood completely. Then he had convinced them to come to Mallory to fight.

Aban was small – not as small as Raphael, yet certainly not built for strength. She carried two blades like Michael and was as nimble and quick as fighter jet in an attack, an F-35 against a fleet of Harriers, and deadly accurate. On any other occasion, it would have been a joy to watch her race through the sky, her swords no more than a glint of reflected sunlight as she quickly dispatched whatever enemy had caught her eye.

Today, she was inundated with targets, overwhelmed with choices, all of them kin. The humans had at least rudimentary uniforms, they had some quick way of telling one side from the other. Up in the air, from a distance at least, one higher angel looked much like another, their prismatic wings shimmering in the early morning light. Only at a close range could she see them, recognize her brothers and sisters. She’d tried desperately to learn all of their faces before the battle, all of them on _this_ side of the war, that is. There was so very little time to decide between friend and foe before her blades struck.

It had been that indecision, that split-second of hesitancy that had been her downfall. Diving onto a larger angel, she’d been just about to strike his back, to slice at the base of his wings from bottom to top in a strafing run that had left more than a few angels plummeting to their death when he had turned his head, showing the side of his face. 

Aban pulled up, suddenly unsure – she knew that profile, that beautiful bronze skin. She had loved it once. “Noriel?”

Noriel, if that was who it was, made no motion to show that he had heard her. He flew on. “Noriel!” she called again, hanging in the sky.

It was then that the other angel attacked.

Aban felt fingers wrap around her neck, another arm around her chest, pinning her hands down, her swords now useless. She immediately started to thrash and twist, kicking her legs and beating her wings against her attacker, but they had done this before – it had been a perfect attack, a perfect catch. They held her close, minimizing the effectiveness of her wings, preventing her feet from connecting, all the while flying both of them off and away from the rest of the fight.

Still Aban continued to flail. The hand around her throat closed tighter and she whipped her head this way and that trying to loosen the grip, trying to gain any bit of air that she could, even as her assailant took them higher into the sky. She flexed her hands desperately, trying some way, _any_ way _,_ to connect her useless weapons with her foe’s head. Anything to give her some bit of reprieve, of hope.

The sky was closing up, turning dark as the oxygen in her system depleted. Angels were much more capable than humans of dealing with a low-oxygen environment, but they could not go without, and Aban had been struggling for minutes now. Her legs felt like lead, her arms held up only by the grip of her unknown attacker. With her last bit of consciousness, she looked down at her brothers and sisters in the battle below.

Without warning, the vise-like hand suddenly fell from her throat. Aban gave a rasping, croaking gasp. The blades dropped from her hands and she raked at her neck as if that would somehow help her to breath, help her to inhale.

And then she was falling. _Falling!_ The thought took far too long to get through her oxygen-starved brain and she was far too close to the ground when instinct finally kicked in, when her wings spread out to their furthest reach and gave a mighty _push_ that saved her from crashing into the side of the hill. She held her neck still, winging her way off, gulping at the air, trying simply to breathe again. 

She was alive. Someone had saved her, she was alive!

Somewhere out there, she owed a life debt. There wasn’t really much time to think about it or to find out to whom. She would take a few minutes, see what she could do to soothe her aching throat and try to find her swords again. Then she would be back into the fight.

She owed them that.

_Mallory_

The eight-balls swarmed into the town like vermin – at first in straggling twos and threes, oversized scout ants checking for danger, for prey – then in larger groups massing together. They shambled along, many of them looking more beast than man, several appearing little more than animate piles of rags, with dragging limbs and drooling mouths, their black eyes empty of all but hate.

Others appeared more advanced, even intelligent. They carried weapons of all sorts; Noma could see lengths of chains and pipe, baseball bats studded with nails, axes and heavy hammers and of course her favorite, a chainsaw. She still had nightmares about that one.

Up on the top of the school, Michael strode among the citizens of Mallory, the people who had yesterday been farmers and butchers and teachers and today were soldiers on the front lines of the most important war ever. He was the general for now, the leader, not the warrior; he had to consider the strengths and the efforts of the group, not only of himself. He directed them with quick, short words to make the best use of their minimal firepower. Most of them were good, if not expert, shots and they knew they had limited ammunition. Fear and nerves were put aside; they were fighting for their futures.

Michael stood in the middle of the roof, weighing one of the kitchen knives in his hand. He had another half-dozen in the other, those that would throw well. When the time came.

He watched the oncoming horde, waiting until the optimal moment. “Noma,” he said calmly. “Please begin.”

Noma took aim at the most intimidating of the approaching swarm, a behemoth of an eight-ball that looked like it could do the most damage, and put one of big rounds into its shoulder. The fallen angel spun a little, dropping his axe as his arm went numb. His coal-colored eyes stared dumbly at the injured limb.

Within the space of a second, she had ejected the spent cartridge, corrected her aim and put a second bullet into the side of the giant’s forehead. He crumpled to the ground. 

A cheer went up on the rooftops. It was a tiny victory for the people of Mallory but it was a victory nonetheless. 

_“Fire!”_ Michael’s command sounded with all the gravitas of the Sword of God. The little town was instantly filled with the reports of everything from hunting rifles to shotguns to handguns. The noise mixed with the boom and roar of the artillery just over the horizon, with the screams of the possessed and the battle cries of men and women never meant to fight. 

The last piece of the puzzle.

For the first time in history, the entire planet was at war.

_Outside Mallory_

“Mouse, what’s left of the Triple-Deuce?” Jenkins was on the restricted channel again; he didn’t want the rest of the troops to hear.

For once she had relatively good news. More than one company had been nearly demolished by the incoming eight-balls, their ranks ground into the rich Alabama soil as the lines of the Lucifer’s army moved slowly but inexorably forward. The Wildcats had taken their toll on the enemy but the cost had been disparately high.

The Triple-Deuce, however, had somehow managed to stay ahead of the fight. The opening artillery attack had been particularly successful on the north side of the valley prior to their engagement, allowing for an actual combat strategy instead of a desperate struggle against overwhelming odds. Until now, they had been holding their own.

Mouse relayed information to that effect. She could hear Jenkins panting into the microphone. He was talking now, not shouting; he must have ridden out of the noise of the fray to contact her. 

“Good,” he said. “This thing is getting out of hand, it’s spreading too wide. We’re going to lose any kind of control if we let it go. Time for us to make our own flanking move. I want the Triple-Deuce to fall back for a bit and we’re going to hammer that spot with the artillery. Then I want them to regroup, move in and sweep around.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get word out to Smith, I want –”

“Smith is…” she interrupted. “Commander Smith is gone, sir. Captain Rodriguez has taken command of the Twenty-Second.”

“Shit.” The word was said softly, more in sorrow than anger. Smith had been a good man, a friend. “Alright. Nothing against Rodriguez but I’m going to head over there. Get firing solutions to the Paladin and the other field guns. I want them ready to go on my mark.”

“Yes, sir.” She paused. “Sir, we’re…we’re getting low on ordnance.”

There was a silence on the other end of the radio. “Understood. Alright, Mouse, I want you to throw everything we have left at this maneuver… _except_ two final rounds for each big gun. Do you understand?”

“Copy that, sir. Hold two rounds for each gun in reserve.”

His sigh was audible even over the airwaves. “Hopefully we won’t need them.”

_Mallory_

He heard it at the same time he saw the mass open up in front of them. Everyone recognizes their name. This, however, was said in such a way that the archangel was sure it involved some kind of otherworldly intervention, as did the parting of the eight-ball horde that accompanied it.

“Michael!” The Prophet’s black hat moved toward the school with a kind of inherent grace, floating between the misshapen faces and matted heads like an obsidian balloon. The eight-balls fell away, tripping over the bodies of their brethren, some dead, some soon to be, and fell eerily silent.

“Hold your fire!” There was enough authority in that order that no one was willing to contradict it. The citizens of Mallory pulled up their weapons, staring at either the mysterious man that they had followed for years or the archangel that they were following now.

The Prophet approached the school. None of the eight-balls had been able to get within twenty feet of it and he did not attempt to get any closer himself. He looked up toward the roof, his smile bright in the early morning sun, his tone incongruously playful. “Michael. You keep coming back. I think there is something you like about this place.”

The archangel moved toward the parapet and he rested one booted foot on the edge. He set his hands on the tops of his twin swords, a casual but deadly show of nonchalance. “I go where I am needed.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” The Prophet gazed around at the faces peering down at him, at the top of the school, at the roof of the dairy, and he raised his rich, full voice. “Is that what he told you, my friends? That he was _needed_? This archangel, this bringer of discord?”

There were little rumbles of words, tiny smatterings of conversations that could barely be discerned above the noise of the ever-approaching battle, yet Michael could hear them, hear the doubt in some of their voices. The faith of the populace was a fickle thing.

“I did not bring the eight-balls into Mallory,” he said.

“Didn’t you? Your brother, your _twin_ , Gabriel, released them from the aether. And remind me, what happened the first time you came to Mallory? Not a short time later, they attacked, did they not? And now again, you are here, and they are here.” The Prophet put his hands out as if they were scales on a balance, lifting one up and the other down. “I think perhaps we might look more deeply into this coincidence and causality.”

“But it is you that they stand with,” Michael countered. “You who leads them.”

“Are you sure about that, Archangel?” The Prophet closed his eyes and thrust his arms out to the side, his palms upraised. Without any kind of shot or sound, the eight-balls closest to him fell like so many bowling pins, toppling to the ground insensate. The others ran away, scuttling off to shelter behind nearby houses, barns and buildings, hundreds of them in panicked retreat.

Without another word, the dark man carefully made his way through the bodies that lay around him, picking a path between corpses, to come closer to the school. He looked up again. “Michael.” His tone was softly admonishing, a disappointed father explaining how things worked to his son. “I told you before, my only goal is balance. I know you think you are helping these people, but they should choose their own fate.”

“Are you offering them the choice between different ways to die?”

“Of course not. My master loves these people, he’s cared for them for a quarter of a century, he’s seen to their every need. Why would he abandon them now?”

There was no way that Lucifer was playing this as neatly as the Prophet was making it out to be. Michael had to make sure, he had to make it obvious to the people around him. “Are you offering to protect them from the eight-balls again?”

“We’ve had a pact for twenty-five years, Michael, a deal. It still holds true.”

It suddenly felt as if there was a stone in the middle of Michael’s stomach. He stood back from the edge of the wall. “What deal?”

“The Celebration, of course. You broke the pact, Michael, you stepped in L took the place of someone but you didn’t fulfill the bargain. Mallory didn’t complete its side of the deal. We need to fix that; we need to restore order, to bring back balance.”

“You want me, don’t you?” Laurel said, wrapping her arm around Michael’s. She’d come up onto the roof when the Prophet had appeared, wanting to hear what he had to say. Michael could feel her body shake against his. Her voice, however, was strong. “You want me because I was the one that was supposed to die in the Celebration.”

The Prophet’s face split with a leisurely smile. “Finally, someone who understands honor and duty.”

Without warning, a metallic _bang_ that had nothing to do with gunfire resonated through the street. The door of the dairy building smashed open and Samuel stomped out, shotgun at the ready, followed by young Cassius and another dozen or so members of the town. They were all carrying guns.

“You can just stop right there, _Prophet_.” Samuel spit the title out as if it tasted foul in his mouth. “No one is going anywhere with you, especially not Laurel and her baby. We’re on to your little game. We may have been fools before, we may have been too desperate to believe in a savior, but we know what’s going on now and we are NOT going to give up any more of our people as sacrifice!”

The Prophet turned to face him and removed his hat, holding it to his chest. “I’m afraid you’re not really aware of whom you are dealing with. This isn’t a negotiation.”

Samuel stuck out his face belligerently. “This town and these people do not belong to Lucifer.”

“Is that the issue?” the Prophet said sincerely. “A name? What does is matter what you call him, if it was Jehovah or Lucifer? For the last twenty five years you were protected, cherished, like a father loves his children.” 

Cassius stepped forward. “It matters to me. I don’t like being lied to.”

“Oh, really? Do you all feel that way?” The Prophet’s dark eyes swept over the group in front of him and up onto the top of the school. “Do you all agree with this folly?”

Again, it was Cassius who spoke up. “Mister, you made a great big mistake. You showed us that good people are willing to sacrifice themselves for others. Well I’m telling you I’m willing to sacrifice myself for Laurel and that baby. I don’t know if that makes me good or not, but it makes me feel real good about myself. I think a whole lot of others are thinking the same way, so you can just turn right around and tell your boss that Mallory isn’t interested in being his pet project anymore.”

A rumble of agreement went through the group on the ground, building into a swell that turned into a cheer, a rallying cry that continued up though the school. Laurel looked around at her neighbors and friends, people she had known her whole life now willing to give up their own lives for her, for her child. She was speechless.

Michael looked down into her face. Behind her tear-filled eyes, he saw fear, yet the same time he saw love, not only for him but for all the people around them. He felt it too. 

He grasped her hand and pressed the back of it to his lips, relishing for just a second the softness of her skin, the warmth of it, the tangibility of her touch. He was not sure he would ever have that simple joy again. 

Then he looked up at Noma. “Take care of her,” he said softly.

A moment later, the archangel landed on the ground a few feet away from Samuel, giving him a curt nod. He turned toward the Prophet and once again rested his hands on the hilts of his swords. “You have your answer.”

Closing his eyes, the Prophet tilted his head to the side, an almost intoxicated grin on his face, the sign of his communion with Lucifer. Then he snapped back, more serious.

“You had a choice, Michael.” He replaced his hat, fitting it on just right. “The family could have been reunited, you could have all been together, your siblings, your woman, your child.” He started slowly walking backwards, his arms outstretched. “You all had the choice,” he called loudly, “to survive, to thrive under Lucifer’s care.” 

A slithering hiss started in the background, just above the threshold of hearing, only barely audible over the sounds of battle nearby. It quickly grew, a sibilant rush, words and yet not words, whispered and mangled and snarled.

He moved back toward a little hillock, remarkably missing all of the obstacles behind him, as if guided by an unseen hand. “You had your choices and you chose poorly,” he continued, raising his voice to be heard over the susurrant noise. “Order must be restored, Michael, one way or another!”

Then, as if on cue, the eight-balls erupted from their hiding places, swarming down toward the school again as if they had never retreated. They grabbed weapons off their fallen comrades, brandishing them high above their heads as they ran toward the little group in front of the school, screaming and yelling in ancient Lishepus.

Noma reacted instantly. “Fire!” she yelled. “Now, now, now!” They had little time before their own people would be mixed into the fray.

Michael glanced back at the men and women behind him. To a person they stood bravely. “Spread out and wait for them to come to you,” he said. It was the only advice he could think of. 

As the possessed descended up on them, Michael listened to their chant. As his blades sang through the air, he heard their chorus echoed a hundred, two hundred times. Only he knew what they said.

_“Archangel, give us the woman, give us the child.”  
“Give us the Chosen One.”  
“Our lord commands us.”  
“We must have the child!” _

_Vega_

_“What the fuck was that?”_

Tim Holt usually tried, actually _tried_ to keep his expletives to a professional minimum but as the volume of the chaos ratcheted up around him from crash and rumble to outright thunderclap, he found it a lost cause. The eight-balls had breached the wall surrounding the city almost an hour ago and things were not going well. 

This last blast had nearly knocked him off his feet. It had sent one of his comm officers to the floor along with at least a half-dozen ceiling tiles. Now she was attempting to extricate herself from her collapsed chair and a growing pile of debris while she simultaneously tried to raise Vega Control.

He ran over to give her a hand up. “Thank you, sir,” she smile grimly, sitting back down in the righted chair, her eyes focused somewhere in the distance while she listened to the voices in her ear. “Sounds like the building above us got hit by two – no, three of those vehicle bombs. Two buses and a tanker. Coordinated attack. The lower floors are on fire, they’re trying to evacuate anyone that’s still left inside.” She turned toward him, her brow furrowed, still listening. “My god, the building’s _Ieaning_. It’s unstable, sir, imminent collapse.”

They might be three floors down but that wouldn’t make any difference if hundreds of thousands of tons of material came crashing down. Holt’s reaction was immediate. “That’s it people, we’re out of here NOW! Get to the back-up site pronto. If you can’t grab it in the next two seconds, leave it. Move out, let’s GO!”

It didn’t take telling them twice. Three of the four radio operators grabbed their equipment and their weapons and moved for the door. To Ethan’s surprise and admiration, they continued talking into their mobile radios as they ran into the hallway, never stopping even as they retreated.

The fourth comm officer, the woman who had so recently found herself on the floor, was not moving. Instead, she was tapping angrily on her helmet, checking connections, hitting buttons on her radio in mounting desperation. 

“Calloway!” Holt called. “Let’s go!”

“Commander!” she said, a hint of panic in her voice. “They’re gone. Topside – Vega Control. I was getting the report and then it just cut out. I can’t raise them.”

Holt swore softly under his breath. “We’ll try again from the other site. We need to get out of here first. Move, now.”

“Yes, sir.” She grabbed her weapon and hurried toward the door. 

The commander caught his Vega liaison’s expression for only a fraction of a second as they ran down the hallway, but it was enough. It was obvious that both of them thought the same thing.

_This was bad, this was very, very bad._

_Outside Mallory_

Gabriel retreated off into the sky. It was only for a moment, yet a necessary moment. He’d caught the pommel end of a sword in the temple and it had well rung his bell – he needed a second to clear his head before he accidentally attacked one of his own angels in this three-ring-circus of a battle. Panting heavily, he flew away in the celestial version of a stumbling jog get to a bit of open air. 

_Damn, this was a right mess._

He’d lost at least half of his newly recruited legion. Some of them he could see on the ground, still gamely fighting with a wounded wing or two. Some of them were ominously still. They’d taken out a fair share of Lucifer’s forces _(where the hell had they all come from?)_ but it didn’t seem to matter, the numbers were stacked against them. Skill and craft and planning were no match for an avalanche. They were slowly but surely being buried.

But it wasn’t about winning, it was about giving Alex time, wasn’t it?

_Wasn’t it?_

He allowed himself only a matter of moments to again analyze the battle, to take stock of his legions and of the other forces involved. His angels did not need a general – the air battle was so liquid, so ever-changing that any specific orders he would give (other than retreat) would be almost instantly obsolete. That, however, did not mean that he could not react to how the fight was going on the ground. 

Once Jenkins had seen the massive force of the rogue higher angels, he’d wisely had his people begin shooting in that direction. They had had only one volley– as soon as the two groups of angels mixed, it was almost impossible to tell Gabriel’s side from the other, and Jenkins knew it. The attack had been short-lived but relatively successful and Janeck had lost quite a few of his airborne forces.

Janeck’s troops (Gabriel had no idea what to call them but the term “hellspawn” came to mind) had taken their revenge. They had swooped down upon Jenkins’ ground corps, ripping them away from the earth only to send them plummeting to their death seconds later. The carnage was both physical and psychological. 

Gabriel had known that would need to stop, and he had known how to do it.

Among the ranks of all the angels, there were always those that had proven to be more skilled at one thing or another. Almost all of the higher tier angels could fight, but there were some that took the talent to an art form, especially when it came to aerial combat. Some of these gifted angels, the Powers, had chosen to sit out his Extermination War and a tiny, petty part of him was still irritated that they had not joined him – things might have turned out a little differently.

Now, however, they were on his side and he could use their talents for this specific purpose. He had directed a dozen or so of them to specifically target the rogue higher angels that were harassing the humans on the ground. So far that seemed to be working; he saw only one of the poor bastards from New Haven being lifted into the air, screaming like a banshee, only to be dropped from fifty feet up. His “special forces” were at least helping out there.

A double flash of light caught his eye, far above the rest of the fight. It took a moment for him to decipher what he was seeing– there were too many legs and wings and not enough heads readily visible. Then the form turned slightly and he could see the angel Aban struggling in her captor’s grasp. 

Aban was too small; she would never be able to force her way free unless she could somehow wriggle out of the other angel’s hold, and with the grip Gabriel could see that he had on her throat, that wasn’t going to happen. Gabriel bared his teeth as his powerful wings thrust him higher into the sky. Aban may not have joined him before but she was one of the first to volunteer when he had approached her group this time. She was a brave, clever little fighter and he would not lose her to Lucifer’s scum.

Gabriel approached much as Aban’s assailant had, from the back and below. The archangel had the unknown angel by the hair and had a sword at his neck before her attacker could even react. “Let her go,” Gabriel growled. 

The rogue angel made a guttural noise of disgust and Gabriel pulled his head back even further by its matted and tangled hair, the edge of his blade drawing blood. “Let her go!”

He did just that, pushing the smaller angel so that she dropped away from them both. Gabriel watched in horror as Aban fell unmoving through the atmosphere, her swords dropping from her hands, her body tumbling like a leaf in a stream. 

There was no way that he could catch her.

Then – there it was – blessed movement. She reached for her throat – she was alive, yet still plummeting. Gabriel wanted to call out to her but she would not hear him above the din of the battle, he could only pray she would have the sense to use her wings…

Lucifer’s angel cried out in pain and Gabriel glanced down to see more blood oozing from beneath the edge of his sword. It was the least of his worries.

With barely enough time, Aban fluttered her wings once, then again, and Gabriel let out a sigh of relief. She rose unsteadily back into the sky. She would make it, at least for now. 

Gabriel pulled the sword back and grabbed the back of the other angel’s grimy coat, his grip like iron. “You’re lucky she lived,” he hissed, forcing them both toward the ground. “I’m only going to cut your wings off for that instead of running you through the heart.”

Again he was rewarded with a dissonant grunt and little more.

They were close to landing when the rogue higher angel suddenly turned around, tucking his wings and somehow spinning inside his coat. He reached for Gabriel’s throat with both hands, his fingers like claws, his solid black eyes like inkwells in his skull. 

Gabriel dropped his sword and grabbed the other’s wrists, trying to pull them away. Both of them tumbled out of the sky. 

They landed awkwardly, rolling across a newly-plowed field, and the other angel lost his grip on Gabriel’s neck. The archangel scrambled backward crablike toward his sword, stunned. “Janax?” 

Gabriel knew this angel, he knew him well. Not long ago, Janax had been one of his best soldiers, one of the Powers in Furiad’s guard. He’d been on the raid to destroy the reactor in Vega and paid the ultimate price. Gabriel had honored his sacrifice and preserved his body in amber… _until Father returned…_

“Janax,” he said again, unbelieving. “What…what happened to you?”

The other angel lumbered to his feet, his movements stilted, as if he had not long had this body. He grinned down at Gabriel, a great shark-toothed leer. “Not Janax, Archangel. Hakael.” His voice was thick and raspy, his diction far from clear. “Do you remember me? Do you remember Hakael?”

Yes, Gabriel remembered him. Hakael had been close toLucifer, so close that when Lucifer had been destroyed _(or so they had all thought, thank you very much, Michael_ ) Hakael and his cohorts had been cast out of the heavens.

Or so Gabriel had believed. Nothing seemed to be what was expected these days, but it did go far to explain some things.

“You’ve taken their bodies,” Gabriel said, continuing to back away, climbing to his feet, readying himself for another attack. “You’ve stolen the bodies of our brothers and sisters, the bodies we sealed in amber. It’s not just the humans you’re taking from now, it’s your own kind?”

The angel/eight-ball laughed, a scathing, phlegmy sound that set Gabriel’s skin to crawling. “ _‘Until Father returns._ ’ That’s what you say, isn’t it? I don’t know if you heard, Archangel – Father isn’t coming back. We might as well get some use out of these shells.” He ran a hand down the side of his chest and onto his groin, the movement more lascivious than anything else. “I’m rather pleased with the one I got.”

Gabriel stared at him, at the body of his former soldier, his friend, now possessed by another. He felt sick. In times past, he’d encouraged the said-same thoughts by his followers, the enjoyment of carnal pleasures; now they seemed so very, very wrong. 

The recent blow to Gabriel’s head and the sheer _horror_ of what he had just discovered wasn’t making thinking any easier. He knew that fighting Hakael now would be a fool’s errand – Janax had been bullishly strong – but trying to talk him out of fighting even more so. The fallen angel was known for his loyalty, not his intelligence. Best to try another strategy.

“Janeck said that all the pieces are here and Lucifer has a plan. What is this plan of his?” The archangel quite obviously slid his sword back in its sheath. “If it’s all that good, perhaps I’ll pack up and leave the humans to it. After all, they’ve done me little good.”

Hakael opened his mouth, then suddenly stopped. His features relaxed from the gape-mouthed grin into something softer, if not less gruesome. His eyes unfocused and for a moment he stared off into the distance as if he could hear a far-off sound.

Gabriel’s heart sank. 

_Lucifer._

“He’s not doing very well, you know.” The possessed angel’s mouth curved down into a parody of a pout. “Too bad.”

“Who are you talking about? Lucifer?” It was really too much to ask for, too good to be true. 

“No.” Hakael unexpectedly bent his legs and leapt up into the sky, his wings beating just enough to keep him airborne. He made a thick, oozy chortling sound. “Your brother, Michael.” 

“Michael?” Gabriel’s chest felt tight. Not the same terrible pain that he had felt that awful day of the Celebration – no, he didn’t even want to think of that. Still, he felt almost lightheaded with worry. Michael was… _Michael_. Michael could take care of himself – that was what he did. He was strong, he was a warrior, he was…

He was alone down there in Mallory. Fighting alone. And he was in trouble.

The sound of Hakael’s raucous laughter faded into the distance as he flew away, leaving Gabriel standing there, staring down at the town of Mallory. He was torn – his brother needed him, but he had a responsibility to his troops, to Jenkins. His mind whirled in circles, trying to come up with an answer.

_Michael..._

The tiny radio in his ear started buzzing, a reedy, irritating noise. It had bounced loose when he had hit the ground in his struggle with Hakael and nearly popped out. He pushed it back into place with his thumb and a muttered curse.

“Gabriel! Are you alright!” It was Mouse’s worried voice on the channel they had set up for limited use. “Gabriel?”

“I’m here,” he responded irritably. In truth, he was pleased to hear from her; she had broken him out of the downward spiral of his thoughts. Of course, it wouldn’t do to let her know that.

“Someone said they’d seen you go down.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Ran into an old acquaintance.” He launched himself back into the air, shaking out his wings and shifting his armor back into place. “Lucifer’s found a way to possess higher angels along with his other minions. It’s complicated. Still, it explains where all his new friends are coming from.”

“Shit. Higher angel eight-balls?

“Exactly. Smarter, stronger and able to fly.”

“That isn’t good.”

“No,” said Gabriel as he headed back toward the battle. “It isn’t good at all.”

_Mallory_

The only indication that Michael could hear anything on his radio was the slightest tip of his head. He’d cued in as soon as he’d heard the little commander’s emphatic call to his brother and had been grateful to hear his twin’s reply. He’d had nothing to add to the rest of the conversation, however, and more than a little to keep his focus.

He spun his twin blades in his hands and little flecks of ichor spun off of them, spattering those on the inner ring. The eight-balls moved back reflexively, the empyrean steel glinting in the sunlight where the blood did not stick. Those blades still looked sharp, still looked fast, still looked eager to kill.

The words in his ear, however, still had at least part of his attention. “Michael, what is your situation?”

The archangel’s eyes roved over the little town. The possessed surrounded him, pressing in on him, backing him and the little group of fighters further toward the old school. He dared a glance over his shoulder at Laurel standing behind Noma, both of them armed, both of them resolute. 

Then he met the gaze of the Prophet perched on the little rise not far away. The Prophet nodded his head and raised his hat as if to say farewell, a mocking gesture as disingenuous as the smile on his face.

“The Prophet is here,” the archangel said, trying to make himself heard over the sporadic gunfire and fighting around him. “He has… _influence_ over the eight-balls.” There was a long pause. “He intends to try take Laurel and our child. We cannot allow that to happen.”

_Outside Mallory_

It was a good plan…for any other war. 

The artillery barrage was quite effective, and when Jenkins gave the uncharacteristically cavalier command to Mouse to “ _Make it rain_ ,” he and the remaining members of the Twenty-Second Battalion found themselves cowering beneath whatever cover they could find for protection from the flying debris and unearthly noise. 

The commander had dismounted and let Freyja loose while the bombs flew. She shied and turned away from the wreckage but she never bolted, never wandered more than a few yards away, brave and true. He decided that he was rather in love with her.

When it was done, while the thunder of mortars and bombs was still rolling into the distance, they immediately headed into the newly formed craters and hollows of earth, the landscape now littered with the bodies of hundreds of the possessed. It was slow going, like an obstacle course of corpses, and any momentum they might have had was soon lost.

The eight-balls, initially frightened off by the heavy artillery, were quick to return, and they brought reinforcements. The planned flanking motion ground into a halt, a slogging stalemate.

Jenkins found himself less in command and more in combat. His position of elevation on Freyja allowed him better sight of the field but also made him more of a target. His legs firmly wrapped around the great mare’s sides, he dropped the reins to use his rifle, then his sword. He needed only to squeeze his thighs, to lean forward or back to control her movements while he worked his way through the black-eyed monsters around him.

He smacked the radio on the side of his helmet, the select band. “Mouse!” he yelled.

“Yes, Commander.”

“Something’s not right. They’re reacting too fast, they shouldn’t be able to move this quickly. They’ve got some kind of intel.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I don’t know what it is, I’ve never seen it befo – goddammit, get off of me, son of a bitch!” There was a loud blast in the background and Mouse waited nervously. “It’s like they’ve got some kind of hive mind or something.” Another interruption, the sound of scuffle. “As soon as we started making headway, a couple dozen higher angels showed up to wreak havoc. It wasn’t by accident either, they didn’t ‘happen’ to look over and see they were needed. Gabriel, can you give any support?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” The archangel sounded distracted. “There are…there are more of ‘them’ than I expected.” He took a deep breath. “And you heard what Michael said.”

“Yes.” Mouse answered. “It sound like he’s got his hands full. The Prophet is in Mallory. It seems like he has a kind of power over the eight-balls there and there’s lots of them.”

“It’s Lucifer,” Gabriel concluded. "He’s using the Prophet and Janeck like we’re using this radio, a limited frequency, and somehow he’s found a way to control the rest of them.” 

Soft curses could be heard from both the humans. “He’s using Janeck and the Prophet as his intel then,” Jenkins said. “He’s directing this entire battle from inside that church, using the information he gets from them.”

No one said anything for almost half a minute, the muted sounds of battle the only thing that could be heard. They were all thinking the same thing.

There was only one way to disrupt the control of the eight-ball horde and that was to destroy Lucifer, and the best way to do that was to destroy the church.

The church with Alex inside. 

The reason Jenkins had held back the last of his big artillery shells.

“See if you can raise Michael again,” Gabriel finally said. “Jenkins, I’ll send some of my legion to assist on the northern line. Your strategy was good; if we can break through there, we may be able to split their forces into more manageable units and concentrate our remaining troops.” 

It was dream more than a real plan. Nonetheless it gave everyone a short burst of hope. They did not want to contemplate the alternative.

Not yet.

_Vega_

They’d made it almost half-way to the back-up site, running through semi-dark halls lit by emergency lights. All of them were hunched over, instinctively trying to make the smallest target possible, trying to be as quiet as possible even as they continued on the radios. It was exhausting.

One of the comm techs held up a hand. “Commander,” he said in a kind of whisper call, trying not to make too much noise. “I’ve got Rollins on the line. He was in Captain Nguyen’s patrol. They took heavy casualties and hostiles captured some of their weapons. He’s trapped.”

Holt’s eyes swept across his people; the four radio officers, the two accompanying security patrol and lastly, the LTC from Vega. In the distance, gunfire rattled, echoing off the concrete walls. Someone not too far away screamed. 

“Where is he?” They’d all taken to hushed voices.

As the comm officer replied, Mack quickly rummaged through the maps and layouts he’d scooped up before they left the counting room and pulled out one in particular, carefully dropping the others to the ground. He snapped a penlight on and held it in his teeth while he spread the oversize paper against the wall. His eyes roved over it, he spun it once 90 degrees and followed a line with his finger. Another tremor rolled through the earth and the light bobbed on the paper. “Rollins is here.” Then he followed another line across the page in the opposite direction. “We’re here and this is the back-up site.” 

The group crowded around him but Holt was closest. “Give me that.” He reached across and tugged the penlight out of Mack’s teeth. The commander traced across the map, where they were and where they wanted to be. Then he turned toward Mack. Their eyes met in another split-second of understanding and the LTC’s head bobbed almost imperceptibly.

Then, without warning, a terrible sound, like the grinding of massive bones, rolled through hallway. Holt quickly looked back the way they had just come. _“Everyone down!”_

The ground shook for nearly a minute, great rolling waves of concussion. All around them bits and pieces of concrete and other debris fell from the walls, the ceiling. Just as the violent shaking began to subside, the hall was filled with billowing clouds of acrid smoke and choking dust. The already dim emergency lights were no match for the haze and they were plunged into an artificial night.

The commander raised his soot-covered head, trying not to choke on the dirt that hung in the air like fog _._ It had happened – the the building that had been above their underground headquarters had come down, smashing into the subterranean floors, filling the basement with unknown tons of concrete and steel.

They were all lucky to be alive.

He could barely see them but he knew that the others were coughing and rubbing at their eyes just as he was. “We need to keep moving,” he heard Mack say. “Right hand along the wall, don’t lose contact. Turn right at the corner when you get there and keep going until the next corner, then stop. There should be clear air there.”

Once again, the commander was impressed by Mack – the guy really did know his way around these tunnels. “You heard him, people, let’s go. There’s fresh air up ahead.”

They hurried along, stumbling a little in the gloom, until they finally reached the corner and the relatively clear air that had been promised. One of the radio techs leaned over, coughing violently enough that Holt was concerned, but he waved off any help. 

Holt brushed the debris off of his shoulders as he looked back at the group. They hadn’t lost anyone, a minor blessing. He glanced over at Mack. “How far from here?” he asked.

“Less than a quarter-mile. Straight shot.”

It was exactly the answer he’d been hoping for. “Alright, this is what we’re going to do. I want you four to get to the back-up site. You two,” he nodded toward the security detail, “make sure they get there.” 

He’d been listening to the reports as they had moved through the halls, listening to those and the increasingly discordant sounds of battle that echoed around them. Then the building had collapsed. The _first_ building had collapsed. He wondered if there would be others.

He took in a deep breath, willing himself not to cough, and let it out. These were the calls he hated to make. “Get the order out,” he continued. “I want to consolidate our forces. Have everyone fall back to secondary positions. As soon as you have confirmation on that, get yourselves there, too.”

They didn’t say anything, they all knew. The secondary positions were less strategic than indicative – the lines could be held, true, but they were more easily abandoned, they were more accessible to the surface environs of Vega.

If there was anyone left to go…and if there was anything left to go to.

“Alright then,” Holt said, “move out.”

“But, sir –”

Holt looked at the comm officer sympathetically yet with a kind of granite resolve. “I’ve given my orders, Captain, I expect them to be followed. We’ve lost contact with the Vega forces. This has become a series of small battles in one very large war. You all know your jobs, there’s not a whole lot more I can do for you right now.”

“Yes, sir.” She sounded near tears.

He gave her a grim but nonetheless supportive smile, his teeth showing white against his dust-covered face. “I have faith in all of you. Now get going.”

_Outside Mallory_

It only took the slightest forward movement to send Freyja lunging forward, as if she was psychically bonded with her rider, knowing what he knew, seeing what he saw. She charged ahead and, using the barrel of his rifle as a handle, Jenkins swung with all his might. The blow almost unseated the commander but more importantly, it nearly took off the head of the eight-ball that had been ready to put a short axe into the back of Captain Rodriguez. The corpse fell at Rodriguez’s feet and he spun around, surprised to see a huge black horse swiftly run past, its rider working to get back into the saddle.

The rifle was out of ammunition and Jenkins had heard an awful crack when it had hit the eight-ball’s head. The stock was probably broken. He didn’t have time to check so he tossed it away, careful not to hit any of his men. He’d lost his sword earlier in the chest of another eight-ball and been unable to retrieve it; either he’d have to pull another one off of a corpse or he’d have to go without.

That left him with the two handguns, his Sig Sauer 9mm and the Colt 1911. He grabbed the Sig in one hand and the reins in the other – he’d practiced single-hand firing, reloading and racking that gun for years, he had no problem with that cowboy maneuver.

The Colt made him think of Charlotte and he paused for the barest moment. He hoped he was doing the right thing, what _she_ would have chosen to do. It _seemed_ like the right thing. He so desperately wanted to do her proud.

Then he thought about her son, Alex and his heart went cold.

He forced himself into a little mental head shake. Now wasn’t the time, he didn’t have the luxury of feelings, of regrets. Pandemonium or not, he was still in command and it was his duty to see if there was any way at all to get at least some of his people out of this shitstorm alive.

He scanned the fight in front of him, found where he could do the most good and kicked his heels into Freyja’s sides. 

_Vega_

Holt watched as his people moved down the hallway, then he turned back toward the lieutenant colonel and regarded him seriously. “Thank you. You didn’t have to stay.”

The LTC tightened the strap on his helmet and checked the safety on his rifle. It had been obvious what the commander had been thinking of almost immediately – neither of them were the type to leave a fellow soldier behind. “I told you, I’ve got your six. I wasn’t about to let you go after Rollins alone.”

“That may be,” Holt readied his own weapon, holding it across his chest. He flashed a sarcastic smirk in the dim light. “But you’re the only one that knows the way. You’re taking point.”

Mack made a guttural cough. _“Fuucckk,”_ he mumbled under his breath. He gave a silent motion to his right. Letting off a quick huff of anticipation, he started off, weapon raised, scanning everything before him. 

Holt followed as they wound their way through the maze of tunnels, straining his eyes and ears for any kind of threat from the side or rear. The dust was better here, the lights more likely to still work; nevertheless, they were quite certainly walking into enemy territory.

Both his heart and his mind were racing. It had become more and more obvious to him that the eight-balls were simply too numerous, too well organized. There was going to be no winning this battle, mere _survival_ was the only conceivable positive outcome. Certainly that wasn’t going to be possible for many of the Wildcats – even now, he knew that he had to be surrounded by dozens of his fallen comrades. He’d stepped over three bodies already. They’d known what they were getting into, they were all soldiers in a war that had been going on for decades; this was the story of their lives, their _raison d'etre._ That didn’t make losing them any easier.

Still, there were things he could do to try to help, to stack the deck in favor of survival, at least for as many as he could. That was why he had pulled the pin on the secondary positions. That was why he had decided to go after Rollins himself – he wasn’t about to leave a man behind, but at the same time, he couldn’t send more of his soldiers on what he was pretty sure was a suicide mission. 

_Into the belly of the beast._

And yet…

And yet he felt a certain thrill, an unexpected anticipation that he was having a difficult time reconciling with the frankly dire circumstances. The thought of going into battle with Mack by his side was both frightening and exhilarating – he couldn’t think of anyone else he would rather fight next to right now. It was all a bit much, emotions he hoped that would have the chance to revisit some other, less deadly time. 

As they approached, he could hear the sound of gunfire ahead. It was sporadic and unfocused, not the well-practiced technique of the Wildcat corps. There was little if any return fire – that wasn’t good. Either Rollins was out of ammunition or they were too late. 

Either way, Holt was angry. These bastards had killed his soldiers, stolen their weapons and used them against his people. They would pay.

Up ahead, Mack came up to an intersection of corridors and stopped, his fist raised in the air. He quickly peered around the corner, then leaned back as Holt drew up next to him. “There’s a corridor in the hall about 20 meters down.” His voice was barely audible. “Five eight-balls on this side of a wall. I can see two bodies on the other side. No movement over there. A lot of the lights are out though, hard to see.”

“Is this the location Rollins called in?” Holt was just as quiet.

“Close enough.”

“Would the wall hold up to grenade?”

“I don’t think so.” Mack frowned. “Might land on the people on the other side.”

“How good of a shot are you?”

The LTC stood a little taller. “Tops in my unit. If you don’t count the one that turned out to be a higher angel.”

Holt let out a tiny snort. “Bested by a higher angel, huh?” he whispered.

“Yeah, she outwrestled me too. It’s a sore subject, okay?” He pulled up his rifle again. “I take left, you take right?”

Holt nodded his agreement, getting his own weapon ready. If they were quick enough, accurate enough, five eight-balls shouldn’t be a problem. 

If that’s all there were.

“On my mark….”

It was only a matter of seconds. Six shots, six perfectly placed rounds, five dead eight-balls – they had met in the middle and hit that one at the same time. Holt felt like whooping with both relief and excitement – he hadn’t felt that way since he was a teenager on one of his very first sorties. 

Obviously he been playing politician for _far_ too long.

They moved in carefully, keeping the eight-balls in view the entire time. The possessed were notoriously difficult to kill; however, each of these shots proved to be more than sufficient to the job.

Mack stood guard while Holt moved to the other side of the wall, checking on the Wildcats there with the penlight. As exhilarated as he had been feeling just moments before, now his heart sank. 

A full squad of six men and women. None of them had made it.“Dammit.”

Mack watched as the commander leaned over one of the bodies, rolling it gently over. “Rollins, sir?”

“Yes. And not long ago. _Goddammit!”_

“You tried, sir.”

Holt closed his eyes, hoping to still the emotions inside. “Trying doesn’t bring him back.” He stood, flicked the light off and sighed deeply. “Let’s get out of here.”

_Outside Mallory_

“Commander.” The technician’s tone was professional but Mouse could tell she was working hard to keep her reactions under control. “I’ve just gotten word from Vega. The eight-balls have breached their defenses in numerous places – they’re using loaded tankers and ramming the walls. Buildings are on fire, thousands are already dead. I’m sorry, transmission cut out before I could get anything more. I couldn’t get them back on line.”

“What’s the situation with New Haven?”

The tech bowed her head. “I haven’t been able to raise them for almost an hour, ma’am. One little radio spurt about twenty minutes ago, it sounded like the refinery went up, but I couldn’t get through. That’s all I’ve got.”

Mouse closed her eyes, willing herself not to show any reaction. She was too high up the ladder right now to have that luxury, she needed to stay strong for everyone else in the C&C. 

_“Commander!”_ This call was almost a shout. The technician seated in front of a screen jumped from his chair. “I’ve got incoming, at our rear!”

Mouse hurried over the screen and peered at it. There, in grainy detail, could be seen the loping, straggling forms of hundreds of eight-balls. “Where the hell did _they_ come from?” she asked, grabbing a control knob on the console. She’d had enough practice with the drones to be able to move one around at least a little without putting it into a tree.

“It’s like they followed us in,” the tech explained, still more annoyed than afraid. “They weren’t there before, I’ve been watching. I swear, there was nothing there ten minutes ago, no movement, no heat signature, nothing. They just appeared out of nowhere!”

The commander stepped back from the screen and patted the technician on the shoulder. “They do that. Stasis, they call it, barely have life signs, then all of a sudden they’re awake. Bastards!” she swore. They’d repelled an attack aimed at their most vulnerable position only to have another appear out of thin air. “Alright, contact First Platoon and see if they can come back and help, then put the word out to our security and to medical – we’re going to have visitors soon. Everybody else get your tactical gear on. Things are about to get interesting.”

_Vega_

The shot seemingly came out of nowhere. At one moment, Holt was standing; in the next, he had toppled to the ground. 

Then came the sibilant jeer that had become the calling card of the possessed. His head swiveling around, Mack fired back blindly, providing cover while trying to find the source of both the shot and the noise. 

He slid onto the ground next to the commander. “Sir!”

Once the initial shock had worn off, Holt had maneuvered himself until he was near the wall, using only one leg. “Came from over there,” he pointed down the darkened hallway over his shoulder. “I was stupid, didn’t clear the area.” He grunted in pain as he shifted into a sitting position.

Smart enough not to contradict a superior officer, Mack instead took quick stock of the man’s injury. There was a long stain of red on the ground where Holt had dragged his leg as well as a seeping bloody hole in the front of his pants. “I’m no medic but it looks through and through. Can’t tell if it hit the bone.” 

“Don’t think so.” Holt grunted again. "Hand me my weapon, would you?”

Doing as requested, Mack took a quick peek around the corner of the wall. The only eight-balls that he could see were the dead bodies that littered the floor in front of them. They could hear others not far away, more than one.

_And the bastards had a rifle._

He looked back at the commander. The man’s face was pale, almost the same grey as the layer of dust that covered his features. “You’re bleeding pretty badly, sir. I need to slow that down.” 

It was soon obvious that his own rudimentary first aid kit was woefully inadequate for this type of injury – after all, the people of Vega usually had an actual _hospital_ nearby. Staying low and behind the protection of the wall, he reached over to the body of a Wildcat nearby and dragged it over. Ethan quickly ran his hands through the pockets of the soldier’s flack vest. Nothing that could be of use. Then he had an idea. “Sorry buddy,” he apologized as he unbuckled the corpse’s belt and slipped it out of its loops.

He returned to the commander. “This is going to hurt like a bitch,” he said as he slipped the belt under the injured leg. 

Holt moaned and nearly cried out. “Dammit, Mack, are you always this rough, or is it just me?”

“I –” Ethan was uncharacteristically speechless. There was something in those words, something behind the look of pain in the commander’s blue eyes. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Holt made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Just get on with it.”

The belt was made fast and tightened, then tightened more. Holt’s face went even paler, sweat breaking out on his brow. The hands gripping his rifle were white-knuckle tight.

“I think that’s slowed it down.” The end of the belt was looped around and fastened as best as could be. “How does it feel?”

Again Holt made that pained laughing sound. “I’ll tell you when the spots in front of my eyes go away.” He grimaced. “They’re going to come back.”

“No,” Mack whispered, peeking around the corner. “They’re here. Down the hall, about ten of them.”

They traded a silent look that said much – “Oh, shit” and “We’re screwed” and “How did we get into this mess?”

Most importantly, however, it said “I trust you” and “I’ve got your back.” 

They moved like a unit, years of training in separate forces yet with a single purpose. There was only one way to possibly get out of this alive and they took it. 

Holt handed Mack the lone grenade that he had attached to his vest. With a smooth, easy movement, the Vega officer threw it down the hall at the same time he sprinted to the other side of the hallway to duck behind the wall. 

The grenade went off with a satisfying blast, taking out the first three of the incoming horde. The other eight-balls retreated, but only momentarily. With hissing cries and wails, they lumbered on, over the bodies of their companions, brandishing axes and clubs and guns.

The first shot hit the wall just over Holt’s head. He flinched, then took a deep, centering breath. He had limited mobility, his leg hurt like hell and he was probably going to die along with the rest of the human race. Even with all that, he looked over at the man across the hallway and gave a bleak little smile and nod of the head. Mack beamed back a grin with a kind of fierce, resolute daring, and Holt felt like he’d been injected with sunshine right there in the depths of the city.

On Holt’s mark, they rolled out – in the commander’s case, literally. He fell over onto his shoulder and into the hallway, his rifle in hand, using the nearby corpses as cover. He started shooting as soon as he had any kind of a target, quick salvos that he could rapidly correct.

Mack stood partially behind the wall, also using short two-or-three-shot bursts. He fired the entire magazine of his rifle – it took only a few seconds, then he ducked back to reload. 

The hall was suddenly, suspiciously silent. Holt painfully dragged his way back behind the protection of the wall again and glanced over at his compatriot with questioning eyes.

The dust from the grenade had settled but the concussion had taken out half of the already meager lights in the hallway. Mack cautiously edged his head back around the corner, squinting into the gloom, looking for any sign of life amongst the growing pile of bodies. “Looks clear.” He pulled the rifle up, flicking on the light mounted on the barrel, and stepped out from the wall.

“Mack, don’t –”

The commander never had a chance to finish. A single shot rang out and the lieutenant colonel spun backward, his gun flying out of his hands. He fell against the wall and slid along it down to the floor.

_Outside Mallory_

“They’re coming, sir.” Mouse was in the corner of the C&C trailer, snugging down her flak vest while she made her report. “Another whole contingent. They’ll hit the rear guard in about two minutes.”

“How many?” Jenkins was panting. He might not be involved in regular hand-to-hand combat like the soldiers around him but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t exerting himself. Not to mention the constant rush of adrenaline. He had to consciously keep from screaming into the radio as he heeled Freyja over to the side to avoid an unexpected eight-ball with a studded two-by-four. The horse pivoted perfectly and a single shot to the head ended that threat.

“I estimate…five hundred, sir.” Mouse’s voice was higher than usual, the only hint of her fear.

“Fuck.” There was no way the three platoons that he had left as a rear guard could possibly handle that many. Not even with Raphael’s fancy shotels. “I’m sorry, Marissa. I didn’t expect –”

“None of us did, sir,” she cut him off. “It looks like they followed us in. No one saw that coming. I recalled First Platoon to this position but…” She didn’t have to continue; it wasn’t going to be enough. “I just wanted you to know...for when we lose communications. I’m sorry sir, you’re going to be on your own.”

Jenkins pulled up hard on the reins, wheeled the great horse around and pushed her into a gallop, moving away from the fight now. “No, I’m not,” he said bitterly. “I’m not going to lose more people when there’s a solution out there. We’ve been dancing around it too long, it’s time we cut the head off this damn snake.”

“Commander?”

“Get Michael and Gabriel on the radio if you can. We’ve run out of time.”

_Vega_

Holt’s reaction was instantaneous. He rolled again out into the hallway, shooting off a quick burst and was rewarded with the gift of a muzzle flash far within the gloom of the hall. That was all that he needed, and in a matter of seconds there was satisfying thump of a body falling and the clatter of a weapon skittering across the ground. Another round brought no answering fire, nothing at all. He waited an agonizing half-minute, listening for any sound of movement or life until he could wait no longer.

“Mack!” he called, painfully clambering back behind cover. “Mack!”

The LTC groaned. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not. You’re hit, you idiot. I think we’re clear, at least for now. Get your ass over here so I can check you out, I’m not exactly mobile.”

There was no quick moving anymore, for either of them, there was only long deliberate thought that eventually made its way to arms and legs. Somehow, both Mack and his rifle managed to make it across the hallway. He landed in a near heap next to the commander, his right arm hanging useless, the shoulder and sleeve already soaked with blood. 

“Shit,” Holt said under his breath, reaching for his knife. Maneuvering as best he could with his own wounded leg, he cut away the shirt around the wound while his patient leaned against the wall, smearing it with blood. 

It was worse than he thought, right through the shoulder. The exit wound in the back looked damn ugly. “Through and through again,” he said, opening up a couple of sterile packs from a pocket on his vest. “Unfortunately I think yours hit the bone.”

“Great.”

“Yeah. So…uh, this is going to hurt like a bitch.”

Mack started to laugh, then stopped when the pain proved to be too much. “Payback, huh?” he hissed out between clenched teeth.

It took a couple of minutes, a couple of very tense, rather agonizing minutes, but Holt managed to make a rudimentary pressure bandage and bind it in place. Both of them spent the entire time listening, ready to reach for their weapons, waiting for another attack.

Finally the commander finished and he leaned against their makeshift rampart. “I think I’ve got the bleeding under control. I don’t know what else I can do.” He sighed and stared down at his leg. “Listen, this isn’t over, there’ll be more of them, sooner or later. If…if you want to try to get of here, get some help for that, I’m not going to stop you. I’m stuck here – you can at least move, you might have a chance. Take any weapons you can find and get to the surface while you can.”

Mack dropped his head back against the wall and made a quiet, exhausted, slightly manic sound. “I’m good, but I’m not that good. Not left-handed. Besides, I told you, I’m here to watch your back. And obviously, sir,” he gently tapped the commander’s injured leg with his toe, “you need me.”

Holt was quiet, listening to the far off sounds of the battle around them. Then he reached up and unfastened the single star pin attached to one side of his collar and laid it on the concrete floor between them. “Tim,” he said softly.

Mack stared at the pin sitting there, a tiny yet significant little piece of the uniform. A piece of regulation, of code. The commander was setting it aside, setting aside his rank, his title, his office.

_For him._

He lifted his left arm and gave a little grimace – he didn’t have two usable hands to do the same, to remove his own badge. Nonetheless the grimace turned into a soft, sweet smile. “Ethan.”

“Alright, Ethan. You got any ideas on how to get out this shit show?”

“I don’t know, maybe?” Ethan tried to shrug and instantly regretted it. Instead, he rested his head against the wall again, his mind wandering as he tried to quell the throbbing in his shoulder, tried to settle the fear in the pit of his stomach. He thought about Alex somewhere _out there_ without him, doing whatever it was that the Chosen One was supposed to do. He remembered their last conversation, the fear he had sensed in his best friend’s voice.

And yet there had been hope there as well. “I mean, if we can stay alive long enough, there might be a chance.”

“You’re talking about your friend. The Chosen One.”

“Yeah. Alex. He thought he might be able to fix things.”

The other man looked at him seriously, his eyes bright even in the pale light. “How?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think _he_ even knew. I just…I just have faith in him.”

“Faith isn’t going to keep us alive for very long when another bunch of eight-balls show up.”

“No, but like I said, if we can last long enough…”

“Buy some time?” The commander looked at himself, at his blood-soaked leg, then at Ethan. “We’re quite the pair, three arms and three legs between us.” He sighed again heavily. “Alright, I don’t exactly have any better ideas. What do you say we each crawl over to the body closest to us and see if they’ve got any spares? I’ll take the rifles, you can take the pistols – they’ll be easier for you left-handed. Then we get ready for whatever’s coming.”

It took more than a little effort to pull himself off the wall, effort that came out as an audible groan, but Ethan rolled onto his knees and crawled with one hand toward the nearest body. A young woman, her face caught in an expression of shock, she had one arm nearly torn from her torso. He gently closed her eyes.

_So young._

“You really believe in this friend of yours?” the commander asked as he half-rolled a body over to get at a spare clip, grunting quietly with the strain.

“Yeah, yeah I do.” Ethan quickly searched the dead soldier’s ammunition belt and removed everything that he could find, tossing it carefully back toward the wall. He kept going back to his last conversation with Alex, about all that they had talked about. Alex had never been what anybody would call book smart – neither of them really were – but for some reason he had seemed kind of…wise. That thing he had said about not waiting…

 _Nobody can promise us tomorrow._

Ethan’s stomach fluttered a little, he couldn’t tell if it was from blood loss or something else. “So, on the 1% chance that we don’t die,” he started, edging toward a second corpse, trying not to sound nervous and realizing how stupid that was in the midst of all of this death, “would you, I mean, after you can walk again and I get better, you know, use both hands, because that would be awkward.” He knew he was rambling but he couldn’t stop, he’d always been that way when he was tense. He slid another pistol toward their cache. “I know this guy, he’s got this great place, if it hasn’t been destroyed, and I mean, you know, if he isn’t dead, too.”

Tim Holt laughed as he painfully scooted back toward the protection of the wall, a quiet yet genuine laugh that he hadn’t known he still had inside. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Ethan turned back toward him, his brown eyes sincere yet tentative. “Oh, sorry, didn’t I say? Dinner.”

“Like…like a _date_?”

“Uh…yeah.”

Carefully dropping the submachine gun he had retrieved, Commander Timothy Holt turned around and inelegantly plopped down against the cement with his wounded leg outthrust, stifling another grunt of pain. In fact, he made no sound whatsoever - no reply, no sigh, no sound of agreement or distaste, nothing at all. Nor did he look at the only other living soul in the room. His gaze wandered to some halfway place between here and there that only he could see and for a long moment everything was very, very still.

Ethan’s heart sank. He’d made a terrible mistake. In possibly the last few minutes of his life, he’d offended someone he cared about and admired. The dropping of rank, the familiarity – they had only been for these most dire of circumstances. In a way he almost hoped the eight-balls would show up soon to put him out of his misery. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t say that.” The tone of the commander’s voice held only the slightest hint of an order. “Come back over here, it’s not safe there.” 

He gave a little shake of his head as Ethan moved back toward the wall, sitting a few inches away, the little pile of weapons between them. “It’s not safe anywhere, really. I guess, that’s why I haven’t…” The words died off. He wiped at his face with both hands, smearing the dust and sweat into long streaks. “I’ve never really had anybody that I cared for. I was afraid of losing them.” 

“I get it.” Ethan’s mouth turned up into an embarrassed little smile. He _did_ get it, he had a lot of friends like that, people too afraid to commit because they knew that any day everything could get taken away from them. He completely understood, he simply wasn’t one of those people.

“Do you? I mean, do you really get it?” The commander turned toward him, grimacing from the pain in his leg. “I don’t think you do. Ethan, I didn’t want you to leave. I didn’t want to say goodbye to you, but…I didn’t want to care enough that it would hurt to lose you. And then you decided to come down here with me, to stay with me, and...and I’m not sure what to do anymore.” He gave a little laugh. “I’m not trained for this.”

“Oh.” The word came out very tiny. It was the only thing that Ethan could think of to say.

For a few seconds they both sat staring silently ahead. They’d shared truths that they’d kept hidden for weeks and now neither of them was sure what to do with the knowledge.

A growling hissing noise sounded from down the darkened hallway, followed by a metallic thud and scrape and a raucous, rowdy cackle that felt like cold water running down one’s spine.

They were coming.

Tim picked up one of the pistols and pressed it into Ethan’s left hand. “Promise me something,” he said fervently. He wrapped his hands around Ethan’s and looked him straight in the eyes. “Promise me that if it comes down to the end, you’ll save one bullet for me.”

Ethan stared down at the gun, then up at the commander. He could feel the almost electric tingle of their first touch, the intensity of his gaze. There was warmth there, and a strength and a vulnerability he could have never imagined.

His fingers twined into other man’s and his voice nearly caught in his throat. “I’ll save two.”

_Outside Mallory_

_There! There he was, the double-crossing little bastard!_ Gabriel tore through the air in a steep dive, his wings nearly parallel to his body, flexing out just in time to halt his approach so that he could grab the back of one of his prey’s wings. One violent heave sent the angel up into the sky, gyrating wildly, completely out of control. 

Gabriel followed and he caught his quarry on the downward trajectory, snagging him neatly by the front collar even as the other angel tried vainly to right himself.

“Janeck, you back-stabbing pile of dung. You shan’t escape from me so easily.”

Janeck’s head lolled on his neck and he let his wings and body go slack, his weight heavy in Gabriel’s hands. A smirk spread across his face while the sour odor of alcohol rose from his breath. “What are you going to do to me, Gabriel? Beat me again? Lucifer is my general now, he won’t stand for that.”

“You don’t trust my brother any more than I do, Janeck, else you wouldn’t be calming your nerves with drink.”

Janeck made a giddy sound. “I told you, Gabriel, everything is working out as Lucifer planned, all the pieces are in place.”

“What do you mean?” The archangel shook him violently, making Janeck’s head bounce back and forth. “What are you talking about?”

Something happened, something changed, and for a split-second Gabriel wondered if he had broken his former herald’s neck. Then he saw the change of expression, the sublimity that never failed to accompany the psychic communication of his older brother.

Presently, the angel’s attention returned. He gave a little chuckle. “Lucifer wants to ask you if you understand now.”

Gabriel was not fond of riddles. “Understand what?” he barked.

“If you understand what it’s like,” Janeck started to giggle, as if this were the funniest thing in the world, “to lose everything!”

_Mallory_

Michael thrust his sword through the chest of yet another eight-ball. The grip of the weapon was slick with blood and difficult to hold, and it took extra time and effort to pull the blade back out again. Time he did not have. Two more of the possessed fell upon him, their black eyes blazing with an inhuman fervor, spittle flying from between their jagged teeth. One caught his back with an awkward blow of a pickaxe; the leather on Gabriel’s armor split but the empyrean steel plates held, and Michael threw a deadly reverse stroke of his wing that nearly decapitated his assailant.

The other eight-ball was more patient and more cunning. He waited until the archangel had turned to the side with that fatal wing swipe and he plunged forward with a long piece of rebar, sharpened at the end to a vicious point. The iron struck Michael in the right side, in the narrow gap between the protection of the armored chest and back plates, thrusting deep into his abdomen.

The pain was instantaneous. The sword fell from Michael’s hand and he fell backward a few steps, six feet of twisted and rusting metal cantilevered from his flank. For a few seconds he stared at it gape-mouth, too pained to breathe, too shocked to do anything else. 

_"Michael!”_ He could hear Laurel’s panicked scream from the top of the school. 

Then he pulled in a great heaving breath, grasped the metal with his right hand and yanked it out. It made a horrific sucking sound that was drowned out by the primal groan of anguish that accompanied it.

The eight-ball that had attacked him looked on too, his expression changing from exhilaration to impending horror. There was no time to react, no time to turn and run as Michael almost casually tossed the length of iron into the air and caught it again over his shoulder, changing his grip to hold it like a spear. With a cry of frustration and fury, the archangel threw the rebar back, sending it right through the chest of his assailant and out the other side…blunt end first.

At the same time, he swung the sword in his left hand in a great arc, slicing through the arm of the eight-ball that had been about to hit him with a crowbar. 

Michael’s senses were close to overloading, he could feel the vibrations all around him, the movement of the air of the combatants, the smell of explosives and blood, the yells and screams and groans, the rattle of gunfire, the thud of bodies as they hit the ground. 

And the pain – searing, tearing pain.

They were coming too fast, too many of them. Even as he picked up his other sword from the ground, as he thrust back into the fray, his side now dark with blood, he could see the masses that continued to pour into the town.

The Prophet stood off to the side, his arms outstretched, palms up, as if in prayer, a beatific smile upon his face. The eight-balls flowed around him like water, never touching him, physically repelled and yet seemingly obsequious. For a moment, he opened his eyes and looked directly at Michael.

And laughed.

_Mallory_

Alex took the knife from Lucifer and weighed it in his hand. It felt colder than it should have, being of simple wood and metal. Heavier too. 

Or maybe that was just his imagination.

“I’ve been listening to you,” the Chosen One said, walking toward the altar, “Really listening to everything you had to say.” He looked up at the mural of the people of Mallory, at the depiction of the simple farm life, the harvest, the Celebration. “And I think I understand what you’re saying.”

Lucifer seemed both relieved and saddened. “Oh, Alex, my dear boy. I’m so sorry.”

The knife thudded into the back of the altar next to one of the few remaining candles. The flame guttered and went out.

Alex turned around, his arms crossed. “See, I may not be the brightest, God knows there are people a whole lot smarter than me, but it doesn’t take a genius to see through your load of self-absorbed bullshit.”

Lucifer’s marble-like composure cracked. “What?”

“You. You’re nothing but a whiny little brat, you’re worse than some of the V-6’s. Going on and on about how your Father didn’t love you, about how unfair things have been to you. Playing your games, setting your brothers up, trying to destroy their lives. It’s so damn obvious. You’re jealous.”

The First Archangel stared at him, speechless. 

Alex took this as the smallest of triumphs. He wasn’t sure what Lucifer’s abilities were, if he were even completely corporeal yet. There was a single end point in sight and he had no real plan to get there. This could get interesting.

“You’re jealous,” Alex repeated. In his head, he could hear Naomi’s voice as she had berated him; he channeled her outrage now. “You’re jealous of Gabriel because he had a family, he had a woman who loved him, he had children. He had happiness so you took it away from him. You’re jealous of Michael because he’s going to have the same thing – happiness with someone else. You can’t stand that, you can’t stand the fact that your brothers might be happy with someone other than you.”

Lucifer’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. “My brothers betrayed me.” His voice was deadly calm. “They betrayed me and then they tried to destroy me.”

“Of course, that makes perfect sense then. Your sister Raphael was part of that too, wasn’t she?” Alex asked. “You did something different with her, though. You drove her mad, used her to come after Gabriel, and then when she wasn’t any good to you anymore, you tried to kill her in a thunderstorm.”

“She…betrayed…me.”

“Right.” Alex’s tone was mocking now. He circled around the archangel, edging back toward the pews. “She betrayed you, so it’s totally fair if you burn her to a crisp. I get it. Where’d you learn that logic, from _your_ dad? Kind of an asshole, isn’t he?”

The First Archangel was nearly shaking with fury. “Do not speak of our Father that way.”

“What not? You _hate_ him, and He’s gone! He up and left and stranded you all here. But wait –” Alex put up a hand. “First He had His other children try to kill you. You’re not even supposed to be around, are you?”

Lucifer closed his eyes, as if doing so could banish the words he did not want to hear.

“That’s what this is really all about, isn’t it, Lucifer? Daddy’s gone and you want to take over, you want to be the _new_ God, the _new_ Supreme Being. You want to show Him that you’re just as good as He is, maybe even better. You’re just a little boy, trying to impress the father that never loved him.”

With a cry of impotent rage, Lucifer dove for the altar and savagely pulled the knife out of the top. He spun around, brandishing it in front of him.

Alex stood near his jacket, a long dagger of his own in hand, a wide grin across his face.

Lucifer’s lip curled up in the corner. “Noma. Of course. A final betrayal. Why should I be surprised?”

“You know what this is?” Alex casually flipped the dagger into the air, catching it deftly by the handle. 

“Your sainted mother’s knife. Empyrean steel. I heard.”

“Yeah.” He flipped the knife again. “It’s from a set of two. My father, Gabriel, has the other one. _One_ of my fathers. See, I was really lucky. I had two fathers, two fathers that loved me. They may not have been perfect, they may have done the wrong things for the right reasons, but no matter what, they did it out of love.”

“How very touching.”

“It is, really. I also had Michael, and I had Jenkins, and a ton of other people that loved me and helped me and taught me. Something I didn’t even realize until just a little while ago. Something you obviously never had.” Suddenly, Alex stopped flipping the knife and instead reached up and started undoing the buttons on his shirt with the other hand. “So about that sacrifice.” 

“Y-yes,” Lucifer frowned and watched, disconcerted by the complete shift in mood. “About that.” 

“Something occurred to me when I was thinking about what happened to Michael.” Alex finished with the buttons and let the shirt hang open. “Your knife didn’t kill him because he was an archangel. I’m half-archangel. So do you want to use my knife or yours?

Lucifer was confused. The young man’s actions were erratic, he was bouncing around topics too quickly. “What are you talking about?”

Alex held out the empyrean steel blade. “Which one do you want to kill me with?”

“What?” A startled laugh erupted out of the archangel. “Oh, you almost had me there. Very good, Alex.”

“What do you mean?”

His perfect teeth showed in a rather vulpine grin. “No matter what you say, my dear nephew, you’re not stupid. Perhaps you’ve had a little help, perhaps you’ve figured it out on your own. It doesn’t matter; obviously you’ve worked out that I need a sacrifice, a _suicide_ , to achieve my potential.”

“I wasn’t sure but it was worth a shot.” Alex pulled the knife back. 

“I hadn’t considered the point about the empyrean steel. Very good. That said, I doubt you’re going to offer to do the deed yourself.”

“Yeah, hard pass on that.”

“Yes, well, the thing is, Alex, I don’t actually _need_ you to do it anymore. I _can_ kill you if I want to and it won’t make any difference at all to my plans.” Lucifer looked at him seriously. “You always insisted you weren’t special. Now it’s true, you’re not special, you’re not even unique anymore. You’ve become redundant, unnecessary. I have another option.”

Alex felt his face flush and it seemed like the room had suddenly become twenty degrees warmer. “Michael’s child.”

“Yes.” The First Archangel’s smile was almost a leer. “My brother’s darling little miracle. Just like you, another Chosen One.”

“You’d sacrifice her to take control of the Earth?”

“Oh, she’ll sacrifice herself. Or perhaps her mother will, you’ll see. Their precious sense of duty, of honor. I’ll have my sacrifice and then I can make this planet into something better…something my Father never could have imagined.”

Alex moved toward the altar, staring up at the mural. Once again, he casually flipped the dagger into the air. The light glinted off the blade before it fell back into his hand. “You know, I think your Father may have something to say about that.”

“My Father is gone, Alex. We needn’t worry about His opinions any longer.”

“I don’t know, I’ve been carrying these around for a while.” Alex set the dagger down on the altar and shrugged out of one side of his shirt. “I’m pretty sure they were meant for you.” He slipped out of the rest of the shirt, his markings on full display, already burning a rich coppery brown.

Lucifer fell back a few staggering steps, his own knife falling from his hands. He stared at the Chosen One, at the loops and whorls that wound around the young man’s chest and arms, the lines and circles, the mystery patterns that no one had been able to read, all gently glowing with a warm, burnished light. “That’s what they’ve all been talking about. It’s…it’s beautiful.”

Alex looked away, rolling his eyes. “Seriously,” he mumbled to himself, “you, too?”

Then he looked back at Lucifer and saw the expression on his face. The archangel was more than impressed, he was afraid. “You can read it, can’t you? The tattoos, you can read them. The message _is_ for you, isn’t it?”

Lucifer shook his head but said nothing.

“Read it.” Alex said. “After all this time I want to know what it says.”

He got no answer and he started to slowly turn around, his arms outstretched. “Michael, Jeep, Gabriel, Uriel, no one could really read them because the message wasn’t _for_ them. It was for you, it was always meant for you.”

Still Lucifer would not respond.

“It’s your Father’s message to you, isn’t it? It’s His message of _love_ to you.”

“No.” The word was whispered, said without conviction.

The markings grew brighter as Alex turned. “None of what you were saying was true, was it? Your Father didn’t abandon you, did He? You abandoned Him. He didn’t betray you, you betrayed Him. He didn’t stop loving you, you stopped loving Him!”

‘No, that’s not it at all.’ Lucifer pushed his hands through his impeccable hair. “That’s…lies.”

“Read the words!” Alex shouted. “Read the message. You’re the only one who can.”

The archangel turned away. He laughed bitterly, trying to regain his self-control. “I don’t know how you did this Alex, but I have to congratulate you. Well done. Did my brothers put you up to it? Certainly Raphael had some part in it.”

The sound had started once again inside Alex’s head, a gentle rush, a feeling of pressure between his temples. This time he ignored it. “You know that’s the only lie here. You know where these markings came from.” He walked over toward the middle of the altar and turned around, his arms held out wide. _“READ YOUR FATHER’S WORDS!”_

_Outside Mallory_

Jenkins wheeled the horse around again, sliding another clip into the Sig in his holster, then pulling it out and racking it against the thick strap across the horse’s shoulder. He put two quick instinctive shots into a nearby eight-ball’s forehead and rode up the hill a little further. 

This wasn’t how he had wanted to have this conversation, his mind split between trying to save his own life and saving those of everyone around him. This was deeply, profoundly personal, it was something that should have been discussed, argued over and finally decided among the four of them. 

Instead he had to make the decision by himself – it was their only hope.

“Michael, Gabriel, I’m sorry, we don’t have a choice. It’s time. Commander Mastroianni, send the Fire Order and firing solutions to all positions with remaining ordnance. Target is the church.”

_Mallory_

_‘I’m sorry.’_

For a moment Michael’s heart felt as if it was going to stop and never start again. His eyes flicked toward the church on the far side of the town. It still looked so very peaceful, so quaint. Somewhere inside that small, white building was the baby he had taken from Noma’s arms, the boy he had saved from bullies, the man who had taken on the responsibility of the markings and the salvation of all humanity. 

_Alex._

An anguish started deep inside, different from the pain of the wound in his side, something that Michael had only begun to feel that day during the Darkness. It burned like molten lava, a terrible anger, a violent rage, a razor sharp sorrow – it was all so very _unfair!_ Alex had done everything that had been asked of him, everything that Father had asked. Alex had grown from an angry youth into an honorable and loving young man, he had learned to use the markings to cure the possessed and release the power of God’s Love and now…now he was going to die...

_…for nothing!_

The archangel gripped his swords tighter, fighting back the tears that burned in his eyes. His teeth ground together and his body shook with fury. He had lost Alex, but the world would not lose the other Chosen One. 

“Noma!” he called out, his voice raw with emotion. “Take her away from here, now!”

He did not look back, he refused to watch Noma fly away with his love and his child. The important thing was that they would be safe, that was all that mattered. 

Another wave of pain ripped through him, rending at his heart. With a savage roar, he plunged into the line of eight-balls, spinning and whirling, his body a blur of movement, his blades flashing in and out too fast to see, driven on by the unceasing scream at the center of soul.

_Outside Mallory_

_‘I’m sorry, we don’t have a choice.’_

Gabriel heard the words in his ear yet they made no sense. The commander of the Wildcats could not have said that, he _would_ not have said that. The archangel had seen how Jenkins had looked at Alex, he thought of the boy almost like a son, a link to Charlotte, to the woman they both had loved.

It simply could not be true.

He stared at Janeck. The higher angel had stopped laughing now. He hung there in Gabriel’s grasp, limply suspended in the air, grinning. 

Gabriel gazed past him, back into the battle over Mallory. He could see the higher angels he had brought, his legion now only a fraction of their original number. He scanned the hilltop where Jenkins and Mouse and all the troops from New Haven fought. His eyes wandered down into the valley where Michael was fighting, where his son was trapped in the forsaken church with Lucifer. 

One hand moved up to Janeck’s neck and the grin vanished. Janeck beat his wings fiercely and clawed at Gabriel’s fingers to no avail; the archangel had him securely and was not willing to let go. 

The words rang in Gabriel’s mind. A terrible coldness flowed over him, as if he had been thrown into an icy stream. 

_‘It’s time.’_

He stared at his captive with dead grey eyes, all of the emotion washed away, even more frightening than the fury that had burned in those eyes only moments before. Janeck croaked out in panicked supplication.

It took only one quick, decisive movement of Gabriel’s wrist. He let the body tumble to the ground.

_Outside Mallory_

Mouse stared at the floor. She’d known this was coming and yet it still felt like a gut-punch. She swallowed, trying to find her voice. “Confirm target is the church in Mallory, sir.”

“Target is confirmed. You don’t have much time, Mouse, get it done.”

“Yes, sir, I’m on it.” She roused herself from the corner; somehow she’d fallen against the wall there, leaning against a featureless steel cabinet for support. Her breath came in short gasps – she’d need to get that under control. 

Everything was already set. Jenkins didn’t know that but she’d seen this possibility and had the logistics worked out as soon as he’d given her the “save two rounds” order. The firing solutions were already loaded, it was only a matter of giving the command.

The command to kill Lucifer.

The command to kill Alex Lannon. 

She sniffed once, swallowed again and squared her shoulders. “Get me the Paladin.”

_Mallory_

Alex looked down at his arms, down at his chest in wonder. He’d never seen anything like this before. The markings on his body were swirling around like leaves in a whirlpool, spinning and whirling, forming one pattern and then dissolving away to form another, a never-ending kaleidoscope of lines and curves and circles and dots. As they moved, the markings grew brighter and brighter, first bronze, then gold, then almost white. 

The sound in his head increased as well, the familiar klaxon pressing on the inside of his skull. He had control, however; he could feel the power within him and keep it in rein. He remembered how he had lost control those times in the past – the fear, the anger sending him over the edge. It seemed so easy now, so simple to keep everything in line. All he had to do was concentrate on the love.

Lucifer stared at the figure on the altar, at the words that flowed over his skin like ribbons of sheet music, dancing and undulating, a poem, a song, a prayer. His green eyes were wide with disbelief. Tears fell down his faultless cheeks as his breath caught in his smooth bronzed chest and his perfectly sculpted body shook with emotion. “No,” he gasped. “Where did this come from? This can’t be real, Father is _gone_. He left us, He can’t…He can’t _know_ …” 

He paced in front of the altar, grabbing at the back of his head, but he couldn’t take his eyes away. “This isn’t real, this can’t be real. Michael, Gabriel, they set this up to…to break me. To keep me from…from my destiny.” He spun back toward Alex. “It won’t work!” he screamed. “These aren’t real, these aren’t my Father’s words! He’s not here!”

Alex watched the archangel almost with disinterest; he could barely hear anything now. He could feel the buzzing in his head spread out, through his chest, out to his extremities, even to his fingers and toes. The heat inside grew as well, it was getting harder to breath.

In his mind, he scrolled through his memories, of all the people that had come to mean something to him over the years, of warm hugs and good laughs, of lost friends and new-found family. He thought about Jeep and Claire and Bixby and his eyes misted over with tears. He thought about Jenkins and Mouse and all of the Wildcats, his huge adopted family, and he was filled with pride. He thought about Michael and Laurel and the wonderful child they would have, and a smile crept across his face.

He thought about Charlotte, his mother, and Gabriel, his father, and his heart swelled.

He thought about Noma, his beautiful Nomes, and his heart nearly burst with joy.

And then, to his surprise, he thought about Ethan. Ethan, his “brother from another mother.” He loved Ethan with an affection so pure that somedays it bewildered him – Ethan, who could drive him up a wall, yet who would always be the closest of friends. Ethan, who had shared his most private dreams with Alex – how he desperately wanted to be a father, to adopt at least a half-dozen children – and to whom Alex had confided his greatest fears, his most private failings. They had grown up together, fought together, celebrated together and passed out together. They had seen each other’s high and lows. They were _brothers_.

If there had been no other, no one else that mattered, Alex would have given everything for Ethan. But there were others, hundreds of thousands, even millions more across the globe. He understood, suddenly, the course of his life and its purpose. His mom had almost had it figured out. He could hear her voice in his head: _‘That’s your job, isn’t it? You’re the soldier, you make the sacrifices, right?’_ Yes, that was true, he was like his mother, a soldier. He was also like his father, Gabriel, a messenger. 

The Chosen One looked directly at Lucifer now. It was difficult to concentrate, to get past the sound, around the pressure inside his skull, difficult to keep it all inside. “He loved you,” Alex panted. He was getting so very tired. “He never stopped. Your Father loved you, Lucifer, and He still does. The proof – The Word – it’s written all over my body.”

“No, no.” Lucifer shook his head and screwed up his face; he didn’t want to hear. If he listened, if he believed what Alex was saying – _if his Father loved him_ – then everything he had done, everything he thought was true was suddenly _not_. The archangel’s mind couldn’t take it, couldn’t take the possibility that everything he had based his very essence upon could be so completely and totally _wrong_.

“No,” he said again, even as the words grew brighter, a brilliantly pure white light. He watched as they coruscated off of Alex’s skin, flashing against the walls of the little church. “No!” he shouted louder, and a sound arose in response, like the wind rushing through an ancient cave, the ring of purest crystal, the rumble of a volcano and the gentle tumble of a mountain stream. It reverberating off the walls, rolling and growing, inescapable. 

Lucifer stared back at the Chosen One, the bearer of his defeat, the only other witness to the truth of Father’s message. Alex’s eyes were closed, his chest heaving, his body slumped over near exhaustion. 

The empyrean steel blade glimmered on the altar, beckoning to the First Archangel like an apple to Eve. In the distance, thunder rumbled twice, then once again.

“No,” Lucifer said, his voice flat. “It’s simply not true.”

The blast could be seen from space, a tiny supernova in the middle of the Alabama countryside. Shockwaves radiated out in a dozen different frequencies and on all planes. Fire rose in a tight plume far up into the heavens. The ground bucked like a magnitude 6.5 earthquake while electromagnetic pulses instantly disabled every modern device for miles and miles. Wind whipped through the skies as if a tornado had suddenly and impossibly appeared out of nowhere.

One tremendous upsurge of unknown energy boiled up from the site of the explosion, rolling out across the land to a height of at least a kilometer. It was barely visible, a ripple in the air, a wrinkle in the light, yet it continued to build and build, wave after wave after wave, stretching out further and further, seemingly never ending. It spread out across the fields, across the lakes and the rivers, across the continents and the seas. When it met an obstacle it flowed over it, continuing its course, almost sentient in its behavior, until the wave finally met itself, covering the whole of the earth, the land and the water and the air.

Wherever the wave of energy hit, the battle ended. Across the globe, angels fell from the sky, humans and eight-balls alike dropped to the ground. Guns and axes and swords tumbled from their hands as they lay there, their battle cries gone silent. No one was spared. The gears of destruction rolled to a halt. 

For the first time in a hundred millennia, the world was at peace.

_To be continued_


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it. Four years, nine months since I started. Two "books." 370 pages overall and over 300,000 words. 
> 
> The end. 
> 
> I want to thank all of the incredibly patient and generous souls who have gone on this journey with me. Your comments and kudos have made this worthwhile. 
> 
> None of this would have been possible without Vaun Wilmott’s vision and Scott Stewart’s original ideas. I was grateful to play in the world that they created. Hopefully I’ve created a plausible finish to the story that they started.
> 
> I’m also grateful for the cast that turned words written on a page into truly believable characters. I’ve walked around with their voices in my head for so long, I feel like they are family. I hope I did their interpretations justice.
> 
> This started out as writing practice – it still is. Now it’s time to put that practice to the test and see if I can create something publishable. Perhaps someday we will meet again on a bookshelf or library table. Until that time, my best wishes to all of you for a life full of health, wonder, joy and love.

_Day 1_

_Raphael stood in front of the surgical table, alone. She’d lost another one. Another patient. Another body that lay before her, only seconds ago living and breathing, now little more than a pile of muscle, tissue and bone. Dead._

_She had failed._

_Again._

_She looked down at her hands, at the hands that had performed thousands of surgeries, tied tens of thousands of stitches, cared for hundreds of thousands of humans over the millennia._

_And not just humans. Angels, higher angels, archangels and so many others._

_Her hands, covered in blood._

_The scalpel dropped from her fingers, falling to the floor with a metallic clang. She looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. No one had. No one was there. No one alive. Patients sat in chairs, laid on cots, stretched out on the floor. Patients she hadn’t had the time for, patients she hadn’t seen soon enough. Patients no longer, now simply…bodies._

_She stumbled out of the medical unit, her feet unsteady. The air was thick with the scents of blood, feces and urine. The smell of fear and death._

_Some of the bodies lay around her in neat order, rows and rows of cots covered in sheets. Others were jumbled together like children’s toys, their limbs tangled, their lifeless eyes staring into eternity._

_More of them that she had let down, that she failed to cure, to fix, to save. She was a healer – or was she? Was this not proof that she was a fraud, an imposter? She had dragged back so many from Death’s door, she had nearly convinced herself she had the very gift of life in her hands._

_Now she knew – no one had that gift…except Father._

_A pain started in her chest, an ache in her heart. It hurt to breath. She clutched at her breast, falling to her knees. Tears streamed down her scarred, lovely face._

_“I’m sorry, Father,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry. I tried.” She looked out at the bodies, at the corpses of those she had failed. “I tried.”_

_Michael awoke suddenly, shaking off the wetness that fell onto the side of his face. He held his hand up, shielding his eyes against the hazy sunlight, squinting even then. It was so very bright. His head hurt – his whole body hurt. He wiped at his cheek – was it blood? No, water._

_The boy leaned over and carefully poured a few more droplets out of the earthen pitcher and into Michael’s mouth, succeeding this time where last his trembling hands had caused him to spill. His huge brown eyes momentarily shone with pride, then with fear as he scooted back away._

_The glare made it difficult to see; nonetheless Michael could make out the shapes scattered around him. Men and women, even children, lay deathly still on the scarred earth. The coppery smell of blood hung in the air along with other even more disturbing scents. He could just barely distinguish the outline of a carrion bird high up in the sky._

_A name came to him. “Ishmael?” he croaked. The little boy shuffled closer, tentatively offering the water once more. Michael tried to sit up but sank back to the earth again, moaning and clutching at his side. His hand came away bloody._

_He lay like that for a few minutes, relishing the cool water as is dribbled into his mouth. Finally he gathered the strength to once more turn toward the boy. “Ishmael,” he called again, his voice still hoarse. “Where are they? My brother and the others?”_

_The boy was silent as he slowly searched around them, from one horizon to the next. His gaze finally returned to the archangel and he solemnly shook his head._

_Michael frowned. No, that couldn’t be true. They couldn’t be gone, not all of them._

_Not…all of them._

_He felt tears gather in the corners of his eyes. He’d lost them, he’d lost the markings, lost Father’s last words. More importantly, he’d lost Alex, lost the Chosen One. Someone as dear to him as his own son._

_And what about his daughter, what about Laurel? He had no idea where they were, where the other Chosen One was, if they were safe. He had promised to protect them – with his life, if necessary – and now he was here and they were…where?_

_And Gabriel and Raphael? Had he lost them, too? He cursed himself, cursed his negligence. He had been the warrior, God’s Sword, they were not, and yet he’d allowed them to be caught up in war, forced into battle. He hadn’t protected them, he hadn’t protected any of his siblings. He’d failed to save Uriel from her madness, failed to keep Raphael out of Lucifer’s clutches._

_Most of all, he hadn’t protected his twin, Gabriel – he hadn’t guarded his brother’s precious, fragile heart._

_He had failed them, failed them all._

_A terrible pressure started building in his chest, different from the pain of his many wounds, different even than the agony he had felt when they had bombed the church. It felt like a cold void opening up in his heart, a sucking black hole deep inside._

_He had failed the humans, failed Alex, failed his family, failed at his one true purpose here on Earth. There would be no redemption, no atonement for his past sins against humanity._

_He had failed Father._

_Gabriel walked through the door of the diner, shaking the sprinkling of snow from the shoulders of his jacket. The bells on the door jingled merrily. He did so hate those bells._

_He pulled off his scarf as he clambered into the booth – his booth, the one in the back with the best view. He was pleased to see it empty. There had been one night that he had come in and seen a police officer had had the same idea of the proper seat in an establishment such as this. He’d spent the better part of an hour scowling at the man until the cop had finished his meal and moved on. It had seemed rather petty to move at that point, but the next day, he’d seen a small “reserved” sign on the table and known it was for him. The gesture had filled him with a kind of warmth that was a new to him. For the first time in a very long time, he felt as if he had a place, that he belonged._

_The restaurant was a busier than usual tonight, patrons at half of the seats at the counter and a number of the tables filled with late-night diners. Gabriel smiled to himself; he was pleased for the owner of the little cafe._

_That meant, however, that it took longer than usual for the waitress to walk by his table. As she approached, he glanced up and he saw the familiar aqua blouse, the skinny jeans and flat shoes, the utilitarian black apron. Her dark blond hair was tied back in a low ponytail and she had on minimal make-up, her cheeks naturally flushed from the heat from the kitchen._

_His heart sped up a bit as she neared – he thought she looked beautiful._

_She smiled professionally, sliding a menu out of one of the pockets of the apron and setting it on the table before him. “Have a look at this. I’ll be back in a minute to take your order.”_

_Gabriel stared at the folded paper. She’d barely slowed down, never really acknowledged him. He’d been simply another faceless customer in a series of other faceless customers. Strange._

_He waited, watching her as she visited with one table and then the next, making suggestions, taking their orders. Her path took her past his table again and he raised his hand tentatively, only to have her walk by without seeing it._

_The next time she came near, he was more insistent. “Char,” he called, using the name on her badge._

_She turned, already past his table. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll be back in just a second.”_

_He stared after her, confused, then was even more so when she returned. She slid a cup and saucer in front of him. “Is regular okay?” she asked, then without waiting for an answer, poured and once again moved away._

_He scowled at the steaming cup. He hadn’t had any of this foul liquid since the very first time he had come into the diner, she knew that. They’d talked about their mutual dislike of the stuff, about her fondness for tea, more than once._

_What the hell was going on and why was she ignoring him?_

_He was starting to get frustrated and the friendly way she chatted with nearly everyone else in the restaurant only served to make him more so. It was all he could do to hold his temper in check as she passed him wordlessly another two times. On the third, he could take it no longer._

_His hand shot out, catching her by the wrist. “Charlotte.”_

_She halted and looked down at his hand on her arm. Her brow rose imperiously._

_Gabriel was suddenly ashamed. He’d gone too far. “I…I need…I need your assistance.”_

_Her voice was cool. “I think you have that backwards.”_

_“I don’t understand.”_

_She gently removed his hand from her arm and put it back on the table, all stern professionalism. “If you’re not going to order anything else, I’ll get your check.”_

_Gabriel watched her dumbfounded as she walked away. Things were so very wrong, everything was so very wrong, he could feel it in his chest, a kind of pain, like an incipient heart attack. He rubbed at his sternum under the jacket, trying to ease the pressure, trying to kick start some kind of rational thought – why? Why was Charlotte treating him this way? What had he done wrong and what the hell had she meant?_

_A small rectangle of paper slid into the periphery of his vision; she hadn’t even bothered to stop walking. He snatched it up angrily and glared at it. There was no way she’d be getting his customary twenty dollar tip this time._

_Then he stopped, staring at the receipt, at the one word written there._

_“Alex”_

_His vision began to tunnel, his ears started to ring, his chest hurt more and more and all he could see was the paper in his hands. He closed his eyes to hide the tears and tried to make some sense of it all._

_Outside Mallory_

Mouse scrambled out of the C&C on reflex, bent over, coughing and just a little bit panicked. She’d woken up in a truck that wasn’t exactly on fire, but it was filling with up particularly acrid smoke. Somehow it seemed, all of the electronics inside had decided to spontaneously die, and rather spectacularly at that. Since she and everyone else had been unconscious at the time, Mouse was willing to let that particular mystery slide. For now, all she wanted was fresh air and a chance to figure out just what the hell was going on.

The world outside the C&C was eerily quiet. All around her, people were slowly making their way vertical – it seemed that they, too, had been overcome with whatever phenomenon had hit her and the radio techs. 

She assisted one of the Wildcat soldiers up off the ground, helping him to unsteady feet. “You okay, McDaniel?” 

The lanky soldier nodded, shaking his head to rid himself of the mental cobwebs. He towered over her by almost a foot and a half. “Yeah. Thanks, Commander. What happened?”

“I don’t know, something to do with the ordnance we levelled on the church maybe. Some kind of backlash explosion. Everybody around here went down. Took out all the electronics in the truck, too.” She pointed at the radio on his hip. “Try that thing and see if you can reach anyone.”

She watched while he unsuccessfully worked the controls. “It’s silent, I don’t even have lights,” he said, tapping it with his palm in irritation. “It’s dead.”

“Not surprised.” She had already suspected that some kind of transient electromagnetic pulse had taken out the gear in the mobile C&C if that were the case, it might have done the same to almost radio, computer and modern vehicle in a hundred-mile radius. There was no way to try to raise Jenkins or any of the other units.

She sighed audibly – this war really couldn’t wait get any more difficult.

All around her, soldiers and techs worked their way toward consciousness, some more easily than others. They gathered in little groups, voices low, trying to figure out what had just happened and what they were supposed to do about it. This was not in their battle plans – they’d been preparing to defend the rear of the Wildcat encampment from attack when out of nowhere the conflict had been put on pause. No one was sure how long that pause was going to be. 

And now they were cut off from the rest of their comrades. The atmosphere was thick with tension and fear.

Then, suddenly, there was shouting and yelling and the sounds of guns being racked and swords being drawn. Mouse looked over toward the back of the unit, trying to find the cause of the commotion but she was too short to see. She broke into a run.

“Get down! Down on the ground! Get the fuck down right now!” A burly captain stood bellowing at a pair of women as another soldier shoved them to their knees. 

“We didn’t do anything,” they screamed as they fell onto the rough soil. Their faces were dirty, their clothes ragged and they were clearly frightened to death. “We’re lost. What the hell, why are you doing this to us?”

Mouse ran up to the scene. “Captain!” she called. “What’s going on here?”

“Commander,” responded the soldier. “Caught these two eight-ball spies as they came at us just now. We’ve seen them in the brush for the last couple hours but were never able to catch them.” He put his booted foot onto the back of one of them. “Got ‘em now.”

The commander looked down at the two prisoners. Something wasn’t right. They were both sobbing, something she had rarely seen any of the possessed do. The eight-balls never played the sympathy card, it was much too finessed for their kind.

And where were their weapons?

She pushed her way into the circle of soldiers around the women and knelt down near one, lifting up her head. The woman looked up at her with red, tear-stained eyes. 

“Captain, you’re telling me that you saw these two earlier, that you are _positive_ that they were eight-balls?”

“Yes, ma’am. Saw their black eyes myself.”

“Then get your damn foot off of her.” She held out her hand to help the woman up. “They aren’t eight-balls now.”

_Outside Mallory_

Gabriel rolled clumsily onto his back, coughing with sharp, painful breaths. He’d landed in a field of what looked like squash or some kind of gourd and at least a few of them had broken his fall. They lay in a soggy, shattered mess around him.

His mind was foggy, his thoughts disjointed, and he sprawled there for a few minutes, unsure of what to do. The last thing he could remember was the sound of incoming missiles and then…then a searing light from the center of Mallory. 

A last brilliant tribute to the Chosen One.

_To his son, Alex._

He didn’t know how he had ended up in that field, he couldn’t remember what combination of events had sent him plummeting from the sky. It really didn’t matter. As far as the Archangel Gabriel was concerned, this war was over. It was time to either go home or concede defeat. He had no fight left within him. 

His body resonated with agony – the injuries and wounds that fought each other for his attention were too innumerable to measure. Nonetheless, one rose above the rest, one tortuous ache, a pain that would never, ever go away.

_Alex…_

He clasped his hands to his battle-scarred breastplate, to the winding pattern etched into the leather, to the knot that tied him to Charlotte, to Alex, to Michael, and he moaned, an otherworldly, soul-wrenching sound. 

The dream came back to him – it had to have been a dream, he thought – perhaps more like a nightmare. The chance to see Charlotte, to see her and yet to not be able to touch her, not to be able to hold her, not to speak to her, had been a kind of hell. 

Yes, that’s exactly what it had been, his own personal Hell. And yet…

Charlotte, that elusive and unreachable Charlotte, had been trying to tell him something. Something he hadn’t been able to figure out in the dream. Something he still couldn’t figure out now.

His grief was like a thick mist over his mind, his exhaustion a blanket over his thoughts. Everything was so damn _difficult_. What had she said – “I think you have that backwards.” She needed _his_ assistance. 

For what?

His chest hurt, it was hard to breath. His heart, it _hurt_. The only other time he had felt this way was when Michael had gone through the damnable Celebration, when Gabriel had thought that he had lost his twin forever.

But Michael hadn’t died.

Gabriel sat up suddenly, regretting the action as soon as he had done it. His head swam as he tried to concentrate, it took far more effort than it should have.

He thought about that time once more, about the bond he had with Michael. That time, that horrible time, when his brother had been so close to death that the people of Mallory had actually buried him. 

_But Michael had not died._

Could the ache in his chest now be telling him the same about Alex? Is that what Charlotte was trying to tell him in his dream?

His heart beating faster now, Gabriel worked his way to his feet. He tested his wings. One was broken along the radius; it would be agony to try and fly. One ankle was swollen from when he had fallen from the sky but the pain was manageable. Mallory – what was left of it – beckoned not far away. He started moving as quickly as his battered body would go.

If there any way that Alex was still alive, his father would find him.

_Outside Mallory_

Raphael turned over, bumping her head on something hard and smooth. Her hands reached out to run delicate fingers along sharp metal edges, hard bolts and smooth flooring. Everything was black, even her angelic eyesight was useless, there was simply no light at all. It took that much longer to orient herself in the stygian darkness, to remember just where she was and why. 

Finally she put it all together – she was on the floor of the Wildcat surgical bus. Somehow she must have fallen unconscious, she as well as the rest of the members of the staff. The silence around her was broken only by the moans and sighs of the other doctors and techs as they woke up as she had – in the dark in more ways than one. 

They must have lost power, she decided; there wasn’t a single indicator light or noise coming from any of the dozens of electronic devices the humans so relied upon. That still didn’t explain why they had also lost consciousness.

Careful not to hit her head, she slowly stood up and made her way toward what she remembered as the front of the vehicle. “Doctor Pederson,” she called out, keeping her voice low and calm as she edged slowly forward, her hand running along the wall. If she remembered correctly, the exit should be close. “Captain Pederson?” she called again.

She was rewarded with a low groan that sounded like “I’m here” from further up. That made sense, Pederson had been working out of the very front of the bus, which meant that the door had to be right about…yes! She grasped the handle and twisted, cracking open the door and letting in a wedge of light that was so bright it was almost a physical assault.

Blinking in the glare, she searched for something, anything that she could use to prop the door open and had to settle on using her own shoe. Turning back toward the interior, she could see the others now as they, too, carefully made their way to their feet, rubbing at heads and arms that had hit too hard on the way down.

It took a few seconds before their disorientation was dealt with, before instinct returned and they were back at the bedsides of their patients, squinting in the light that came in from the door, trying to see if there was anything they could do with their limited resources. The prognoses were mixed; one patient had unfortunately died without the electronic supports, another was stable, at least for the time being. Techs were already searching the cabinets for flashlights, candles, glow sticks, anything.

Pederson made his way over to Raphael, massaging his forehead. He’d hit it on the edge of the surgical table when he’d fallen unconscious and an ugly bruise was already forming over one eye. “What do you think happened?”

She shook her head. They’d been expecting an attack but nothing of this kind. “I don’t know. I had just finished my last surgery. I was going to go out to fight and…and I don’t know.” She was both baffled and a little afraid. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

That kind of reaction wasn’t normal from an archangel and they both knew it. The captain raised an eyebrow. “What do you want to do?”

She looked over her shoulder toward the door. “It’s too quiet out there, I don’t like it. I’d like to go check things out.”

The captain agreed. “Take your weapons.”

There was enough light now to let her find her shotels in the back of the bus and she slipped on the belt with their sheaths, snugging the razor-sharp blades against her slender hips. She pulled her shoe out of the door and replaced it with a now-useless lamp. For a moment, she stood in the doorway, afraid to step out into the light, aware of the strange dichotomy of a healer wearing such brutal weapons. The remnants of her dream – her nightmare – still lingered in the back of her mind. A part of her was almost terrified to look, to see that dream become reality, the truth of her failure.

Taking a deep breath, she walked into the bright sunlight.

Outside, across the wide field, soldiers ran back and forth, some still a little unsteady on their feet as they helped their comrades from one area of the medical unit to another. They all had the same kind of bewildered mix on their faces – fear, confusion, pain – and yet there was another expression that she could see, something that hadn’t been there before. It was as if they were all taking a collective deep breath. 

Then she realized it – the fighting had stopped. 

Men and women lay back in their cots, their wounds bandaged, the bleeding stopped, and they let out a sigh of relief.

It was almost surreal. Things had had been so bad, so very, very bad, that this reprieve was almost impossible for her to accept. And yet…

And yet she still felt that something was wrong, something was off. It was like the precursor to a migraine, an aura of pain, intangible yet unquestionably there. The war had ended, it was over, she could feel that, feel it like she could feel the air around her, but there was something not…quite… right.

A disharmonious buzzing sound broke the newborn calm, garnering everyone’s attention. They all watched as a small motorcycle, more of a dirt bike really, rolled up to the medical area.

Mouse pulled off her helmet. “Raphael! Thank God, you’re the one I wanted to find.”

The archangel rushed over. “What is it? Do you know what happened?”

“EMP, electromagnetic pulse. I _think_ ,” Mouse postulated. “Or something like it. I’ve never heard of one shorting out people before, but we’ve definitely lost all radio, all contact with the front. Everything’s fried. This is the only thing we could get started.” The little commander giggled, embarrassed. “It’s my old piece of shit, way too simple to be affected.”

“But why did you want me? I’m not a mechanic.”

“The fighting’s’ over but people are still hurt. No one can get to them right now, none of the trucks are working. I figured we’re both small, you can fit on here with me. We can take them some emergency aid until we can find some other way to get regular medical personnel out there.” She grimaced and leaned over, speaking quietly. “And we need to see if we can find Jenkins. Otherwise…”

She didn’t continue. She didn’t want to give voice to those thoughts.

Raphael blushed. She still felt scatterbrained, still frightened by the dream while the commander was already thinking multiple steps into the future. “Yes, of course, I’ll get a kit.” She turned to hurry back to the medical bus.

“One other thing,” Mouse called out. “We’ve found quite a few eight-balls – well, _former_ eight-balls. They’ve been cured or something, they’re not possessed anymore, I don’t know what happened. We need to get the word out to everyone – they’re not our enemies anymore.”

_Mallory_

“Turn him over onto his shoulder.” Noma took a deep breath and tried to keep the quaver out of her voice. She knew that she needed to be the calming influence now, she knew that she needed to be in charge. She slid her hands under Michael’s back while Laurel pulled on his shoulder. “Althea, you hold his head.”

The young girl did as asked, gently cradling the unconscious angel’s head as they rolled him from his back onto his side. The girl shivered – there was an awful lot of blood.

Noma saw her reaction. “It’s okay, honey, he’s going to be okay. Archangels are really hard to kill. I know, I’ve tried.” She gave her a quick little grin. “Laurel, we need to pull his armor off, can you help with that?”

Laurel quickly set to work unclasping Michael’s breastplate. Her work was quick but careful; only Noma could see the way her hands shook as she pulled the armor apart. She had somehow managed to keep her panic under control and that was impressive enough. Laurel had seen Michael fighting, seen him injured, seen him lying there, and then when they’d all woken up, she’d seen nearly everyone else get up _except_ him. That she hadn’t jumped right off the roof at that point was to be commended.

Noma had flown the both of them down as soon to the ground as soon as she had considered it safe. Now they were crouched in the middle of the street surrounded by a few hundred confused former eight-balls and the rest of the town of Mallory.

Ripping away Michael’s bloody shirt, Noma exposed the injury in his side. The wound was raw and deep and bleeding freely.

Althea made a gagging noise. “It’s okay, sweetie,” Noma comforted, “you can turn away. You don’t have to watch. Keep holding his head, you’re doing great.”

Just then Samuel ran up to them. “I think we’ve got word out to everyone to stop fighting. Poor bastards are just like so many lost lambs.” He stared down at the little tableau around the archangel. “Can we do anything to help here?”

Noma glanced up. “I need some kind of fire and a bowl or a plate or something.”

“So now we need the damn bonfire,” Laurel said with brittle, manic laughter. She sniffed away tears that she refused to shed.

Noma looked at her seriously. She understood, Laurel was deeply frightened, and she couldn’t blame her – the woman had already lost Michael once before. “Listen to me. He’s going to be alright. He’s an archangel, he’s been through worse. Just find me what I need and I’ll show you how to heal him.”

_Outside Mallory_

The dirt bike bounced over ruts and ditches, overloaded with the weight of two riders. Mouse had to carefully avoid not only her own soldiers but also the newly recovered eight-balls that wandered the battleground like children looking for their mothers.

“He did it, didn’t he?” Raphael shouted into her ear. “The Chosen One cured them, he cured them all.”

“Yeah, it looks like. They said that Alex healed a bunch of them before in Vega but it nearly killed him.” She didn’t want to say anything more, to think any further. Alex was a friend.

_Another thing to push away until it absolutely had to be dealt with._

The battlegrounds were covered with wounded from both sides of the battle and their little field kits were not going to go far. The medical corps would already be organizing some kind of convoy but it would be difficult to mobilize without any vehicles – they would have their work cut out for them. 

First, however, Mouse need to try to find Commander Jenkins, for the Wildcats and for herself.

They headed for the area where the Twenty-Second had been engaged, where Jenkins had taken command. The casualties were fewer here; nonetheless her heart sank as she slowly maneuvered the little bike between the still forms. Others called out as she passed and she could only tell them that someone would be there…soon.

“There!” Raphael shouted. “Over near the trees, the horse!”

She was right. Freyja was blissfully grazing near a copse of trees that had somehow managed to avoid being levelled in the fighting. Mouse gunned the engine.

“Commander! Commander Jenkins!” Their calls rang in the eerie quiet, the landscape that had so recently been filled with the horrific sounds of battle now stirred only by the low moans and soft cries of the wounded.

“Mouse?” a voice croaked from not far away. “Marissa? Over here.”

They found him sprawled against a berm, looking like a ragdoll that had been casually tossed away. Mouse ran to one side while Raphael ran to the other. 

“Sir!” Mouse cried. She was having a hard time remaining professional. “Are you…can you move?”

“It’s not…ugh.” He grunted the words out through the pain. “I think Freyja threw me when the….blast went off, don’t remember much. My shoulder is, ahh…and my knee’s jacked up. God, I’m getting old.” He groaned again as Raphael reached for his arm. “Get this damn helmet off me, radio’s out.”

“Sir, I don’t think –”

“That’s an order, Commander. Want to be able to hear you properly.”

Mouse gave a quick, questioning look to Raphael and the archangel turned her attention to Jenkins’ neck and head. After a moment of rapid but thorough examination, she carefully removed his helmet and set it off to the side, then went back to his shoulder. “I’m afraid it’s dislocated.”

He rolled his eyes and groaned. “That’s just fu- _YOW_!” He glared at the tiny archangel as she laid his arm down in a more comfortable position, the shoulder now back in place. “Warn a chap when you’re going to do that to him.”

“I didn’t want you to tense up,” she said with little regard. “Now let me look at your knee.”

“Sir.” Mouse said, trying to get his attention again.

“Yes, Commander. Sitrep please.

“It’s over, sir.”

“What do you mean, it’s over? Ceasefire?”

“I mean, the fighting, the war is over. Listen, do you hear it?”

He cocked an ear; she was right – the field, the town, everything was remarkably quiet. “We…lost?”

“No, nobody lost. Or…everybody won, I don’t know. The fighting has stopped. The eight-balls, they’re cured. We were unconscious and when we woke up, they were human again.”

His eyes went wide, as much from the statement as from the way the archangel was twisting his leg. “I’ll be damned.”

Mouse nodded. “I don’t know if it’s everywhere. Radios are out, we don’t have communications.”

He looked down at the archangel as she continued to painfully manipulate his knee. “Can you quit that for a second and give me your input?”

Raphael glared at him in annoyance, then stopped. She squatted back on her haunches, her face contemplative. “From what I can see, the phenomenon affected all of us, humans and eight-balls and higher angels alike. I don’t know what it was but I do know it was incredibly strong to affect me the way that it did. Evidence suggests Alex _was_ involved. If I had to give you my opinion, I would say that I think that it was more than a local event; it was… _cosmic,_ if you will.” She smiled, a small optimistic smile. “I think – I _hope_ – you will eventually find this cure to be worldwide.”

Without warning, Jenkins’ eyes teared up. He’d been fighting for this for over twenty-five years and now it had happened, it _had really happened_. It was what Charlotte had died for, perhaps what Alex had given his life for. 

“He did it,” he whispered, “Alex did it.”

“Yes, sir,” Mouse said somberly. “I think he did.”

“Have we heard from him?”

“No, all communications are down.”

“Yes, of course, you said.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” She knew how he felt. Alex was more than just another soldier.

The mention of her nephew’s name seemed to spark something in the archangel. She stood up, her expressive face twisted into a frown. “Commander, I believe that you have torn the ligaments in your knee, at least one if not all of them. I’ve done what I could for your shoulder for the time being. Neither of your injuries are life-threatening. There are many people in much worse condition.”

“Of course.” Jenkins sounded almost embarrassed. “By all means, please attend to them.”

The crease in Raphael’s brow only deepened. “I…I understand that I’m needed here, Commander, I have a duty, but…” She broke off, hesitating, unsure. Her fingertips ran over the middle of her chest. “My brothers…they…I’m sorry, there’s something I can’t explain.”

“No, you don’t need to.” Jenkins rather painfully shook his head. “You and your brothers have given more than we can repay. Go find them.”

Mouse looked at her. “You still can’t fly, can you? Can you ride the bike?”

Raphael sighed. “No, I’ve never mastered such contraptions.”

“She’s an awfully big horse,” Jenkins offered, “but if you think you can handle her…”

The little archangel turned to look at Freya, peacefully grazing near the tree. Her scarred face lit up with delight. “I think I can.”

They watched Raphael as she’d quickly stripped the saddle off of the great mare and jumped onto her broad back without as much as a hand up. Seated there, she looked more a child than a powerful archangel, but she had a firm hand on the reins and the horse was soon off toward Mallory at a gallop.

Jenkins stared after her, at the complete contradiction of rider and mount. A little giggle that was totally at odds with his rank and completely inappropriate to the situation started somewhere deep inside and threated to come out. 

_They had won!_

He felt oddly buoyant, almost tipsy. And stuck, yes, quite stuck in the dirt where he was. It was all rather comical. He’d gone to war with the angels and ended up wounded by his own horse.

The giggling did more than threaten and he dropped his head to the side to try to hide his amusement. He felt nearly giddy with relief and happiness and at the same time terribly awkward. It was not the best combination.

_Perhaps he did have a head wound._

“You’re a medic, right, Mouse?”

“Yes, of course, you know that.” Well, _obviously_ , she was almost finished attaching a makeshift splint to his knee. 

“I think…the injuries you, know, and all the excitement…” He tried to stay serious and found it more than a little difficult. “I have a terrible feeling that I’m going to stop breathing.”

“Commander!”

“I may need,” he continued, still trying not to break out in fits of laughter, “resuscitation.”

“Oh? Oh, really?” The little XO’s face split into an incredulous grin. 

“I _am_ grievously wounded,” he countered, a twinkle in his eye. “You wouldn’t want to lose me right when we’ve won the bloody war.”

“Oh, yes, quite grievously wounded.” The splint finished, she reached up and gently pulled the garnet colored scarf from around his neck. It was only matter of a few seconds and she had it knotted into a serviceable sling for his arm. She brushed a bit of grass from the side of his face. “And no, I never want to lose you.” 

Then she kissed him gently and he kissed her back, a soft quiet promise of things to come. She gazed down at him with chocolate brown eyes and her smile was warm and sweet. “Breathing okay now?”

He nodded. “My heart may be flopping about in my chest a bit but I think that’s to be expected. I haven’t done this for quite some time.” 

Then he grimaced; he’d taken more than his share of her valuable time. “Go. You’re in charge until I get back to the C&C. You have quite a lot on your plate.”

“We have good people, they know their jobs. I’m going to see what I can do here.” She zipped up the medical bag and slung it on her shoulder. “And if I’m in charge I’m telling you to stay put. I’ll get a litter out to you as soon as I can.”

He shifted position, trying to stifle a grunt of pain. “See what you can to do conscript anyone healthy enough into helping with first aid. And see if you can raise anyone in Mallory,” he called after her as she ran back to the motorbike. “Somehow.”

_Mallory_

Historically speaking, when an archangel walked into a town, things rarely turned out well. Archangels tended to be the forbearers of rather drastic events – Sodom and Gomorrah were testimony to that. Gabriel stumbled along the remains of a road, following the same path that his twin had taken months before into the cursed town that had once been Mallory.

It was impossible to reconcile the proper little village that he had seen from the hilltop just a day before with the scene of carnage all around him. The perfectly white-washed houses, the pristine streets, the colorful gardens, everything had been battered and bloodied, smashed and trampled. Bodies lay scattered everywhere, most of them the ragged forms of eight-balls rather than the rustic town folk. Michael’s citizen army had been remarkably successful.

Those eight-balls…. Gabriel had almost drawn on one of them as they approached him just outside the town until something intangible had stopped him. He didn’t know if he had noticed the blue eyes on a subconscious level or if he had felt the lack of an angelic spirit within, but thankfully he had not parted the poor soul from their head. The fellow looked as if he had enough to worry about.

They all did, these newly recovered humans. They all wandered about with the same dazed, amnesiac expression, as if they’d just woken up from the worst night of binge drinking ever. Gabriel almost pitied them…almost. In a way he envied them; there were more than a few days that he would have given anything to forget the atrocities he had committed over the last twenty-five years.

A few of the residents of Mallory were already venturing out among them, with cups of water and bandages and a bit of bread or fruit, trying to help them to understand just what had happened to them over the last quarter-century and how they had ended up here. The consequences of it all were rather mind-numbing.

Gabriel, however, had no time for such niceties. He worked his way through the town toward the church…or what had _been_ the church.

He recognized the area – he’d been there with Michael, after all – yet there was simply nothing left to see. Where the massive armature of the bonfire had stood, where the quaint little church had sat, now there was…nothing. Even less than nothing. A hole, a cavern in the soil thirty feet deep and twice as wide yawned precipitously, surrounded by hillocks of brick, stone and dirt that reached out another hundred feet in every direction. All around it, houses and buildings had been toppled and blown over. It was like looking at a blackened moon crater in the middle of an earthquake that had been hit by a tornado.

Gabriel climbed one of the mounds of rubble, slipping a little as it shifted under his feet. He stared down into the crater. Its vast curved base was almost glasslike, hammered by a massive force and forged by a great heat, scored and seared by the very fires of Hell.

Nothing could have survived a blast like that.

_Could it?_

Still, the pain in his chest burned. His eyes scanned across the scree, searching for something, anything.

“Gabriel!”

The call surprised him and he turned around quickly, almost losing his balance. “Brother!” 

Michael appeared from around the corner of a house that was remarkably still standing. His armor was missing, his clothes were ripped and bloody and he was walking between the supportive shoulders of both Laurel and Noma. A girl, barely into her teens, followed behind them, carefully carrying the archangel’s swords.

It took an agonizing minute of scrambling through the debris to get to him. Gabriel gingerly held his twin by the shoulders. “Michael, you’re wounded.”

The other archangel winced but only a little. “I’ll be fine. Noma already saw to the worst of it. You, brother?”

“I…” Emotions flashed across Gabriel’s face. “I feel him, Michael. My son.” He put his hand on his breastplate. “I can’t explain.”

Michael grasped his brother’s arm. “I feel it, too. That’s why we’re here. To look for Alex.”

Gabriel’s breath caught in his chest and his eyes misted over. It hadn’t been his imagination, it hadn’t been simply wishful thinking. Charlotte _had_ been trying to tell him – their son was still alive. 

If they could find him.

Raphael pulled up on the reins and gripped tightly with her legs as the big black mare came to a walk near the little group. It hadn’t been an easy ride, the horse was far too large to be comfortable, but it had been exhilarating to feel the horse’s power beneath her. Raphael felt revitalized, the terrors of her nightmare swept away like so many cobwebs, at least for a while.

“Brothers!” she called as she slid to the ground, relief flooding over her. She took quick visual stock of them. “You’re well.” She lifted the side of Michael’s bloody shirt and saw the remains of his injury. “Or at least as well as can be expected.”

Michael gave her his customary barely-there shrug. “You’ve come from the Wildcat base. How are they?”

“The same, as to be expected. Injuries, casualties. Jenkins is wounded but alive, he’ll have things sorted soon. The eight-balls, you’ve seen?”

“Yes, they’re human again.” 

She gave an internal sigh of relief. So far her hypothesis was holding up. 

She exchanged a brief embrace with Laurel and then turned toward Noma. “It’s good to see you again.” 

“Yeah, you too.” Noma’s voice was friendly but strained. She put her arm around the slender shoulders of the last member of their party, a young teen girl. “This is Althea. She’s the best wingman I’ve had in a while. She and Laurel helped me take care of Michael.”

“Another young healer. Excellent.” She held her hand out to the girl. “I’m Raphael, a pleasure to meet you.”

Silently, Althea shook her hand, her eyes huge. It all seemed a bit much for her.

Raphael turned back toward the group. “I think enough niceties. You’re here to look for him, aren’t you?” she said. “Alex.”

“Yes.” Gabriel hadn’t said anything since she arrived. He seemed unsure of himself, his carefully cultivated air of insouciance slipping more than a little. “I…I have a feeling he’s…”

“I know,” she said. “I have the same feeling.” She laid her fingers over her heart. “He’s family. It hurts, but only because he’s alive and hurting.” 

They all turned toward the center of the blast zone where the church had once stood, toward the deep depression there, a bowl of blackened, compacted dirt. It felt naked, gaping, as if the Earth itself had been wounded like Michael.

A small hand slipped into Gabriel’s and he glanced down to see Raphael, her bright grey eyes gazing up at him. “He’s here, brother. We all sense it, that’s why we’re here. Look around – the explosion sent everything _outward._ We’ve much to search. We’ll divide up the task, we simply have to _find_ him.”

Gabriel nodded. The rubble around them resembled the debris from a great high tide, oversize wreckage from the aftermath of a tsunami all arranged in a rough circle. More than a few houses had been destroyed and parts of walls leaned crazily this way and that, boards jumbled together like kindling. There were fire-scorched bricks and rocks and tree roots and clods of dirt that looked like boulders all forming a ring of ruin over ten feet high in places. Yes, there were more than a few places to hide an injured man…or a body.

“Alright. You start searching the rubble. I…I…” His eyes cast once more toward the darkened crater.

“Gabriel.” Michael’s grabbed at his shoulder and turned him around. “No one could have survived there. You know that.”

“I do.” Fear and foreboding battled for a brief instant on his features before he gained control with a mirthless laugh. “But if nothing else, I’ve always been rather thorough.” He looked closed to being physically sick. “I have to check.”

“Then let me come with you.”

“To find nothing?” Again, he laughed, a forced sound. “No. Besides, you’re wounded. Practically useless. Noma, stay with my rather pathetic twin, would you? He’s liable to hurt himself further.”

“Althea and I will start on the far side,” Raphael offered. “Is that alright, child?” The girl acquiesced silently, still a bit shocked to be in the company of not just one, but now _four_ angels. “We’ll call out if we find anything.”

Noma pointed to a place where a section of wall leaned precariously over a downed tree. It was obvious that she was barely able to stay still – she wanted to be looking for Alex, not standing around discussing things. “Let’s start there. There might be space underneath.” 

Hesitantly, Michael turned away. Gabriel gave him a cavalier bob of his head. “Go. I won’t be a bit, then I’ll take the area to the south.”

His twin frowned, and started walking, still leaning on Noma. Laurel had her arm around his middle as they slowly moved away.

Gabriel spun on his heel and once again stared at the large, nearly perfect basin where the church of Mallory had once stood. Yet not _quite_ perfect. There, along one edge, he could see a darker area, a blemish in the smooth wall of compressed and fired dirt. A flaw.

An opening?

Even as his excitement rose, his body resisted. The mere act of walking was laborious, every muscle in his body complaining, his ankle swollen painfully inside his boot. It took all of his will to convince his aching legs to slip-slide down the basin wall in an inelegant crouch, to reach the jagged cleft in the wall of the crater and then to stoop down so that he could peer inside. 

The sun was high overhead and only angled partially within and the dust and soot in the air further served to muddle the view. With a resigned sigh, he carefully lowered himself down into the semidarkness.

The cavern, if it could be called that, had only five feet of clear space at its highest point, and extended off into shadow perhaps six or eight paces, if one were able to walk on the shifting rubble. As Gabriel’s eyes adjusted to the lack of direct light, he could start to make out different features – the remnants of a wall in that corner, another wall over there. Stacked up in between – upon what he crouched with the greatest of caution – were piles of brick and concrete, broken glass, wood and timber, all of it shattered and piled haphazardly, as if it had been smashed down and then pressed into the space by a great hand.

He stared at it, trying to understand, trying to make some sense of it. Curved edges of wood, window glass, bits of painted scenery…

His eyes grew wide – this _was_ the church! This was the whole of the building, compacted into little more than rubble, pounded into the ground and then thrust up against the remaining corners of its own basement by whatever forces had been unleashed.

His heart dropped – Michael was right – nothing could have survived this. If Alex had been in the church at the time of the explosion, he would be buried under tons of wreckage. 

They wouldn’t find him for _weeks_. 

The weight of the realization was too much, a burden as enormous as the great pile of debris. Gabriel’s legs felt weak, unable to hold him any longer, and he melted down onto the heap of broken brick and stone, suddenly too exhausted to even sit.

Gabriel lay there unmoving, surrounded by the twilight haze of the basement cavern and his own thoughts. The sounds from above, from outside, were blessedly muffled. He appreciated the quiet. Occasionally, he could hear the patter of dirt and stones as they ran in little rivulets down the unstable pile of debris or the shift of a larger rock but for the most part, it was noiseless, almost peaceful. 

The breath shuddered occasionally in his chest, a precursor to what would come when he let it, when he had the time. Right now his heart felt like a ball of lead, too heavy to feel. He knew that he needed to go back to Michael and the others, to tell them what he had found, to tell them of the place that held the body of his son in a kind of subterranean cairn. He needed to simply hold himself together, for Michael, for Noma. Later, when he was alone, when he had time to think and to remember, he would be able to feel.

To mourn.

His head fell to the side and he contented himself for a while watching the shafts of sunlight make their way across the rubble, slowly traveling across the broken bones of the little church as the sun moved across the autumn sky. Still he did not move. The rays of light moved lower and lower until they angled in through the gash he had entered through, casting a faint glow into the furthest corners of the church’s former basement. 

Gabriel’s eyes wandered of their own accord, focused inward, seeing nothing. They did not take in the ghostly glow of broken marble or the gleam of twisted metal. Nor did they see the fairytale shimmer of dust motes, the multihued sparkle of shattered glass or the intricate archaic designs still evident on the walls and ceiling. 

Then – what was that? Something piqued at his senses – a memory, a tug at his heartstrings. He sat up partially, staring into the easternmost corner of the cavern, where the slanting autumn sunbeams only began to touch. There had been something there that had caught his attention even in the midst of his mental shutdown, something that pushed through the haze of his despair.

There it was – a glint of fair hair, a dusty blond curl. “Alex?” Gabriel’s voice came out a frantic whisper, he dared not speak any louder for fear of banishing the sight like a will-o-the-wisp. “Alex, is that you?”

Carefully scrambling to his feet, his heart racing, he fought his way over the ever-moving rubble. The golden hair beckoned him on, glimmering in the late afternoon glow. It did not disappear. He had to crawl over the top of the shifting mound, his arm bracers and breastplate particularly helpful as he pulled his way along, soon unable to even raise himself to his knees for its instability. His hands were raw with cuts and scrapes but it didn’t matter, nothing mattered. 

As he drew closer, he pushed away a board that blocked the anemic light. One edge of a face appeared and he could finally see…

“No. No.” Gabriel’s head fell into his palms, the adrenaline that had fueled his search suddenly leaving him weak. “No, it can’t be.”

A thick rasping cough came from out of the shadows. “Hello, brother.”

Gabriel wasn’t sure if he wanted to weep or scream – it was all so…so _insane._ He held his face in his hands as if trying to hold his mind together, trying to keep some semblance of order in his thoughts. He felt as if his head was in a miasma of sentiments, too many to feel. He should have been crying, should have been sobbing yet he couldn’t find the tears.

Lucifer was alive and Alex…? Was the pain he felt in his chest a phantom or had that aching been about his oldest brother all along? 

How could Fate, how could _Father_ do this to him?

“It’s been a while.” The First Archangel’s voice, normally so mellifluous, sounded odd, his diction distorted beyond mere exhaustion. “Eons, really. But I’m not exactly who you’re looking for, am I?” 

“No,” Gabriel sighed without inflection, “you’re not.” He took a moment to gather himself lest he start laughing like a madman – he’d already played that particular card in the past and found it somewhat wanting. Curling up into a ball was always option but equally degrading. Rolling onto his shoulder, he stared back at the gap in the ceiling, the way back to Michael and Noma and the rest the world. The exit back to sanity. It was probably only twenty feet away yet it seemed miles.

“Tell me, brother,” he finally said, his voice still flat, “just how did you survive? Everything’s been destroyed.”

Lucifer let out a choking laugh. “To be honest, I wasn’t so sure that I had. It took me all that I had left to crawl over here.”

“Hiding again?” Gabriel looked around. “This is where you’ve been all along, isn’t it? Under the church. This isn’t a basement, it’s your crypt.”

“Well, yes. Convenient if nothing else.”

“And these then.” He pointed to the scrolls and loops that could barely be seen on the walls. They looked so very familiar. “Michael was right. Alex’s markings, they were meant for you all along.”

“Yes, yes, they were for me. They were always meant for me, a ludicrous ploy by Father meant to bring me back into the fold or some such foolishness.” The First Archangel sounded jaded, as if he’d long ago dealt with the subject and moved on. “You’ve all been obsessed with them. Such fuss over a collection of lies.”

Even through the overwhelming avalanche of emotions this caused a reaction. “Lies,” Gabriel growled. “Lies? They were Father’s _last words!”_

“That they may have been, but lies nonetheless.”

Gabriel made a little sputtering sound of disbelief; it was all too much. “I started a war because I thought the markings were a message for me, for _us_. I abandoned _my twin_ because he refused to give them to me. I destroyed _a world_ and they were for you the entire time?” 

“Are you really that jealous, brother?” Lucifer shifted slightly and the inclined sunlight caught the side of his face. The rest remained in darkness. “That always was one of your failings.”

“No. Not jealous.” He wasn’t really. “Disappointed. In myself.” He took a deep breath. “Tell me then. Alex. Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” There was a long pause. “Probably…gone.”

Without a word, Gabriel rolled over onto his back. The rocks and stones made crunching noises beneath his armor and he let out a little gasp of pain as he fell onto one bruised shoulder. He stared blindly up at the decorated ceiling above him. 

_Gone._

_Such a simple word._

It was a few minutes before he spoke. “You asked if I knew what it felt like to lose everything. Is this enough for you? Have I lost enough for your revenge?” 

“Gabriel. Do you think this is what I wanted?” The First Archangel’s voice cracked with emotion. “Do you think that I _wanted_ to cause you pain? I used to love you the most.”

“That is where we differ, brother. I still love you. That is what you don’t understand.” Gabriel continued to stare at the patterns on the ceiling, refusing to turn toward him. A tear coursed its way down the side of his face. “Michael and Raphael taught me this – we are still family, we will _always_ be family no matter what. But you, you insist on pushing everyone away, insist on punishing us all. You took everything away from me, brother. You took my woman, you took my family and then you took my very sanity. You nearly broke the bond I had with Michael. You took my love for the humans and you turned it into _genocide!_ I will never be able to atone for my sins against them, I will never be able to look a single one of them in the eye without shame. Now, now you’ve done it again. You’ve taken my son from me once again.”

“You betrayed me, brother.”

“And it tore at my soul. I did what I had to do, what Father asked of me to do. I had no other choice.”

“Always the good soldier, aren’t you? Michael may be Father’s Sword, but you were always His thrall.”

“And you were His favorite until you defied Him.”

“I didn’t agree with his policies.” Again that painful-sounding cough. “Neither did you on occasion, if I remember correctly.”

“I never challenged Father like you did. I wouldn’t.”

“No. You wouldn’t.” It was said almost as an accusation.

“And yet somehow I’ve come out the villain in this story and you’re out to make yourself the hero.”

“I’ve always loved the humans, you know that.”

“If you want to call it that.”

“I went up against God the Almighty for them – if that’s not love I don’t know what it is.”

“Control?”

Lucifer made a hissing sound. “You never were very good at seeing the big picture. I’ve never wanted anything but the best for the humans. The same for our angelic brethren. There were simply …too many. That’s where you came in.”

Finally Gabriel turned toward him. “What are you talking about?”

“You, brother. My very own Flood. Certainly more effective than Michael ever was. Over _six billion humans_. I wanted to cleanse the Earth and start over, yes, but I never imagined you would be so very thorough. I’ve never had the opportunity to properly thank you for that.”

Gabriel felt as if he’d been hit in the middle with a tree trunk. He’d known it innately, known that he’d been manipulated, known that he’d been somehow maneuvered into opening the Seventh Seal yet he’d never imagined the intent. He’d always thought that the loss of life – the six billion human lives – had been the terrible result of his choice and his madness. That it had actually been the _goal_ had never even crossed his mind.

The cavern suddenly seemed devoid of air, suffocatingly close. “ _Your_ Flood.”

“Yes, of course. Or does that title offend you? Perhaps we can call you my Gardener then. One must clear out the weeds from time to time to let the flowers truly thrive.”

Once again, Gabriel wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. It was all quite insane, as if the world had tilted off its axis and would never quite be right again. 

_It hadn’t only been about revenge. He’d been Lucifer’s puppet all along._

That settled it, things really couldn’t get much worse. Best to finish ripping off the bandage, he certainly couldn’t feel any more horrible than he already did. “My son is dead, Lucifer. Alex is dead. At least tell me what the markings on his body said.”

Lucifer was silent for a moment. “As you said, a message to me from Father.”

“And what did this message say?”

The Son of Morning let out an undignified snort. “That He _loves_ me, of all things. That Father still loves me and that He forgives me. It’s ludicrous, of course.”

And suddenly Gabriel’s world snapped back and sanity was restored. His body trembled with emotion.

 _Because it wasn’t ludicrous, it wasn’t ludicrous at all._

He turned away; he didn’t want his brother to see the look on his face, the expression in his eyes, even in the dim light of the cavern.

For twenty-five years, Gabriel’s sole motivation had been his Father’s return. Yet even as he yearned to once more bathe in the glow of His Father’s affection, he feared His wrath, the inevitable punishment for his crimes against the humans.

Gabriel understood that his brother feared much more than that. Lucifer’s own fragile ego depended on being in the right, or least being right in his own eyes. Long ago, the First Archangel had set himself up as their Father’s foil, the opposite to his Holy Grace. Lucifer needed to be the alternative – for the humans, for the angels, even for his brothers and sisters. He’d based his whole identity upon it. 

And if he could not be? If he could not be the black to Father’s white, the antithesis to all things celestial, if he had not committed _the unforgivable,_ if Father still loved him, then what was he?

Simply another one of the heavenly host, just another angel.

And Lucifer could not accept that.

Lucifer could not see past his own psychosis. He could not see that Father was the God of Love, the God of Forgiveness. He could not see the no matter what, Father would _always_ love him.

Alex’s markings may have been meant for Son of Morning, but their message went further. For if Father could love and forgive Lucifer for what he had done…

…then he could love and forgive _Gabriel_.

Gabriel felt a kind of warmth within him, barely noticeable, like a distance fire seen through a window. Nonetheless, it was there. 

_Hope._

“Tell me, did our brother Michael survive?” The words were still strangely distorted. “I’m having problems sensing anyone right now.”

The question was phase so conversationally that it took Gabriel by surprise, as if they were talking over a cup of tea instead of under the earth laying on a pile of rubble. “Yes. He’s wounded but he’ll recover.”

“Good. Always was an excellent fighter. I never wanted him truly injured. And his woman? The child?”

The hair on Gabriel’s neck prickled. “Why do you ask?”

“They’re family, of course. I’m concerned.”

Gabriel turned onto his side and grabbed at the front of Lucifer’s shirt, pulling him close. “Haven’t you done enough?” he hissed. “Haven’t you –”

The words caught in his throat. The light angled in from the hole in the ceiling now, casting across the cavern, and he could finally see his brother more clearly. On one side of his face, Lucifer was smudged and scraped, dust mixing in with tiny rivulets of blood. The other side of his face was simply… _missing_.

Gabriel gaped down at the bloody bone and raw tissue that covered half of his brother’s head. Teeth glared from behind a lipless gash and the empty eye socket ran with a yellowy ooze. He stared with shock as he realized that it wasn’t only Lucifer’s head; it was his shoulder and arm, too. Ribs poked from beneath scarlet gore. In the shadow, his leg was a sinewy, bony horror. Nothing was left but the most rudimentary structures on fully half of his body.

Gabriel pushed himself away in a combination of disgust and pity. The sight was unnerving yet the pain must have been intense. It was difficult to know what to say, impossible to remain unmoved. 

Lucifer groaned as he fell back against the rubble. “What do the humans say? Two steps forward, one step back.” He let out a thick chortle. “It took me centuries to create this body. Now look at me.”

“It didn’t have to be this way.”

Again that phlegmy sound. “Didn’t it? How else was this story going to end? Do you really think that Father was interested in your petty little lives? Your trivial romances, your human paramours, your precious children – do you think any of that matters? Father wanted me _destroyed_ , Gabriel. He sent your son to destroy me. Alex was nothing more than a letter bomb – he was Father’s last attempt to eliminate me all wrapped up in a pretty little missive full of deceit and lies. Alex had one purpose and he _failed_.”

“Father sent Alex to _stop_ you, brother. To redeem you.”

“To save me? Is that what you truly think?” His one green eye scanned the cavern, taking in the area around them. “Care to explain the rather massive explosion then?”

Gabriel slowly shook his head. “I don’t claim to understand Father’s plans any longer.”

“It doesn’t really matter. You and the rest of the family have done worse to me, little brother. I survived that.” He winced. “This is merely a temporary setback.”

“No.” Gabriel let his head fall back and he stared up at the ceiling, at the swirling marks there. “No, brother, it’s over.”

Lucifer struggled to lift himself onto one elbow. “You’re wrong, Gabriel. It’s not over. I’m still here.” His voice rang with striking intensity even with his damaged face. “I’m here and Father is gone. He abandoned all of you and I’ve done everything I could, _everything_ to be here with you, with my angel brethren and the humans. Father has given up his dominion over this realm. Someone must take up the reins – who better than I?”

“Do you really think that you’re Father’s…what, His successor?”

“Yes, of course! Fate has decreed it herself. Your son failed, Gabriel, for one reason – because I can’t be destroyed. I’m part of the cosmos, the Nemesis, the one who balances it all out. _I cannot be destroyed_. Not even the machinations of our All-Powerful Father could lay me low. I am more than immortal – I am _eternal_.”

Gabriel stared. Lucifer’s tirade was only more verification. “You’re….you’re insane.”

Once more the Son of Morning laughed, a self-confident yet unhealthy sound. “I’ve only followed the chain of logic. Not your strong suit, true; I’m sure Raphael could help you out if you asked. Let me put it simply – Father tried to destroy me twice. He failed, twice. To put it another way – B is greater than A… _and_ _A left town_.”

“Then you mean to rule over all of us?”

“You’re my brother, Gabriel. You said it yourself – we’re family.”

It was notable that Lucifer had not denied anything with the statement. Gabriel swallowed hard. “Shall we ignore the fact that you killed my son?”

“You son died in battle. An honorable death. It wasn’t his fault that it was a suicide mission.”

Again there was no denial of the charge. “And what about the other Chosen One? What about Michael’s child?”

Lucifer was quiet. Now he, too, stared at the ancient words upon the walls. “She’s necessary if I am to be what I need to be.”

“You’ll make her a sacrifice?” Gabriel watched his brother’s traumatized yet still prideful face, waiting for an answer. Nothing came. “You know Michael will never allow that. You’re talking about his _child_.”

The First Archangel gave a self-satisfied kind of sniff. “‘Needs must when the devil drives.’”

In a sudden flash, Gabriel understood why Michael had fought so hard to protect Alex all those years ago. It wasn’t only because he had been the Chosen One, it wasn’t because the baby had had a destiny to fulfill. It wasn’t even because Father had required it. 

It was because that tiny infant was an innocent, pick out of a million other newborn humans out of no fault of his own to bear an awful burden. It was because that child was defenseless, caught up in a battle it had no concept of.

And because that child _mattered_. There was no equation, no formula to weigh one human against another or against the masses – they _all_ had value, value beyond measure. Every single one of them.

David had mattered. Alex had mattered. The child Laurel now carried mattered. Not only to Michael and Laurel. The child mattered simply because she existed.

The confusion of emotion that had churned inside him coalesced into a cold fury, a white hot anger. “No,” Gabriel said, his voice like a tiger’s purr just before it pounced. “No, you won’t touch her. I won’t let you.”

“Really, little brother? What are you going to do to stop me?”

“Anything I need to. For Alex. For Michael. For his daughter.” There was granite determination in the words. “This is over, Lucifer. Perhaps my son did fail, I don’t care. The important thing is that I shan’t. I’m going to finish this.”

“You, Gabriel?” In the pale light, the half-mouth curled up into a sneer. “The architect of the Extermination War? Are you now to be my judge, jury and executioner? Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?”

“Perhaps it is. Perhaps only a madman can judge madness.”

Lucifer sat up again and the slanting light glistened off the raw bone and sinew on the damaged side of his body. His lips, what were left of them, pulled back from his teeth in a parody of a grin. “I’ve nothing to fear from you. I told you, I am eternal. I am the balance in this universe.” He grasped Gabriel behind the neck and pulled him close, a horrible intimacy. “My dear brother, you cannot undo that which must be.”

Gabriel allowed himself to be drawn into that hideous embrace. He leaned closer, resting his head against his brother, against the shoulder that had not been torn clean of flesh. He wrapped one arm around Lucifer’s back, his hand sliding across something thick, cold and wet. “You were the greatest of us all, Lucifer. The shining star,” he whispered. “You don’t even know how far you’ve fallen.”

With his other hand, Gabriel pulled the empyrean steel blade from the sheath beneath his breastplate. It was only a quick twist of his wrist and the motion of a few inches to force it under Lucifer’s ribs, to slice through his liver, his diaphragm and then to thrust it up into his brother’s heart.

Lucifer’s back arched and he gasped in pain but Gabriel held on. He tried to push away yet Gabriel grasped him even tighter. Blood ran down over the hilt of the dagger, over Gabriel’s hand, hot and slick.

“Brother.” Lucifer’s voice was already growing weak.

Gently, Gabriel lowered his brother’s mangled body back to the mound of debris. He lifted up his fingers, now crimson-black in the dusky light. “My wife’s blade, you know.” His voice was flat. “I thought it was only fair. You took her away from me, too.”

Lucifer coughed yet again. This time blood stained his teeth. “Your betrayal is complete now.”

“No, not betrayal, brother. Redemption. For both of us. I must atone for my sins. I must do what I can to make things right. You took everything away from me; I shall not allow that to happen to Michael.” 

“And for me?” Lucifer’s breath was labored, his words coming out in little more than a thick murmur. “How am I redeemed?”

Gabriel leaned close once again. “I told you, I still love you, Lucifer. That is why I will not allow you to hurt anyone else. Perhaps Father sent me to you as well. Perhaps I was the backup to His original plan.” He pushed a golden lock off of his brother’s face, leaving a smear of blood on his cheek. “Perhaps He wanted both of us to know that we are still loved.”

Lucifer’s chest made little spastic motions that did little to bring in air. His face, what was left of it, had drained of color even in the low light. His one good eye stared up at Gabriel, the life behind it slowly fading away. A tear slid out the side and down his dirty cheek.

Gabriel watched silently and waited. This time, there would be no resurrection, no coming back from the dead.

_No one save Father was eternal._

Despite his brother’s sarcastic yet still well-meaning comment, Michael had decided to work with Laurel and allow Noma to search on her own, the better to comb the great circle of destruction. Raphael and Althea were on the far edge to start looking there. There was no science involved, no hunches or plan, only hundreds and hundreds of square feet of ruins that needed to be carefully sorted through to look for survivors, for one in particular. 

Gradually some of the residents of the town had made their way over to offer to help. Now there were at least a half-dozen groups scattered across the debris field, yet it still wasn’t enough. The feeling that precious time was ticking away was in the back of everyone’s mind. 

And Gabriel? No one had seen him for hours.

The work was laborious and slow. Every bit of the wide swath of wreckage had to be searched, every large remnant of house or barn had to be moved and every pile had to be at least preliminarily dug through to make sure that Alex was not underneath. So far they’d found the mangled bodies of nearly a dozen eight-balls, the corpse of an elderly man who had refused to leave his post guarding the church, and a frightened cat that had run off as soon as she had been freed.

The searchers were tired, covered in filth and more than a little discouraged. The sun had been high in the sky when they had started and now it was threatening to dip below the trees to the west. The shadows lengthening on the ground making it difficult to judge the depth of a hole, the size of a space.

Always there was the call: “Alex!” “Alex? “Alex!”

Michael squatted near a pile of bricks that had once been a hutch or pen or something of the sort. Now it was a mound of debris and little else. He poked at in a desultory fashion with the broken end of a rake that he’d found earlier. Nothing shifted, nothing moved to give evidence of anything inside, and neither did he.

He tried to remember the last time he had felt this exhausted, this emotionally spent. There had been times that he had been physically mistreated far worse than he currently felt. The beating he had taken from his brother and sister had left his body shattered but his spirit had still been strong. It had taken Raphael’s ministrations to get through to him, to finally push through the message that Gabriel and Uriel had been forced to send with fists and cudgels. He’d truly been an arrogant, stubborn fool.

When he had been strapped to what he and Gabriel now referred to as “Julian’s toaster,” he’d been physically drained almost to the point of collapse, but having Gabriel there, rebuilding their bond – even if it had been under rather _unique_ circumstances – had given him a kind of mental energy. He felt that he could have sat there for weeks if his brother had stayed with him.

Then there had been the Darkness. Physically, the damage had been limited but his psyche had been abused much more than he was about to let anyone know. Perhaps that was why this search was so exhausting. He’d felt these feelings before, over and over again, the imminent loss of someone he loved as much as his child yet to be born. His mind kept running back to his nightmare, to that horrible sense of failure. Had he failed the Chosen One? Had there been something he could have done differently, something he could have taught Alex, something that could have changed this outcome?

_Of course there was, the list was endless._

He could not fail his daughter like this. No matter what, he could not fail her.

Laurel came up behind and rested her hand on his shoulder. It had a warmth and comfort that felt like manna. “You okay?” she asked.

“Yes, just resting for a moment.” He stood and took in a deep, cleansing breath.

She wrapped her arms around him and he could feel both her heartbeat and that of their child gently thrum against him. “We’re going to find him,” she said confidently. “And he’s going to be just fine. I have faith.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his lips against her head. Her hair was dusty from searching and held the residual scent of cordite, the unmistakable fragrance of battle. Her strength never ceased to amaze him. For a moment, he simply stood there, feeling the warmth of her body, her faith feeding his own. His fear melted back into the corners of his mind.

Suddenly the air was rent with sound. “Michael! Raphael!” Noma’s voice rang out to the west. “Over here!” 

Laurel looked up, her eyes gleaming. “I told you.”

They ran as fast they could, their gait more of a pained, hobbling shuffle than a legitimate sprint, their hands tightly clasped together. Noma was in a far corner of the search area in the remnants of what had once been a barn. All that was left of the building now was a short stone foundation; everything else had either been shaken down by the quaking earth or blown apart by the tornadic winds. Sections of siding leaned against each other like haystacks and heavy timbers lay scattered on top of broken farming implements. A metal feed trough had been completely flattened, a long plow had been twisted into a curve. 

Crouching next to the fieldstone wall, Noma pushed at a section of thick wooden barn door. “He’s under here, he isn’t moving,” she said, panting. “I keep calling to him but he isn’t responding. I can’t...I can’t get enough leverage…” She pushed at the door, grunting with effort and barely controlled anxiety. 

“Noma.” The word was more of a command than a name. Michael grasped her arm. “Let me help you, we can do it together.” She nodded mutely and angrily brushed at the tears in her eyes with the back of a dirty hand. 

Once the door was moved, they could see that Alex had been thrown against the rough fieldstone wall. His shoulder rested against the concrete and one arm curved over his head protectively. Nonetheless, a trickle of blood ran from his forehead down the side of his face. His body was naked from the waist up and his chest and arms were covered in bruises, cuts, and scrapes. Soil and debris covered much of him like an earthen blanket.

Noma fell onto her knees and reached for him. “Alex?”

Now it was Laurel’s turn. “No, don’t move him,” she warned. She squatted awkwardly near Alex’s head and carefully laid two fingers along his neck. It took a moment before she let out a sigh of relief. “He’s alive.” 

Alex’s skin had felt alarmingly cool and Laurel slipped out of the light jacket she was wearing. She carefully laid it on top of him while the others watched with a kind of silent anticipation. Then there was nothing else she could do. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t have the training for the kind of injuries she suspected Alex had. She didn’t want to say what she had felt when she had checked his pulse – a heartbeat thready and weak, his breathing shallow and labored. Nor did she want to say anything about the puddle of blood she had seen beneath him.

Once more Noma reached out. This time, Michael grasped her hand. He shook his head. 

“I’m sorry,” Laurel said, standing up and pressing her hands into her aching back. “I don’t mean to be cruel but we can’t risk moving him, we don’t know his injuries. Raphael will be here any second. She’ll know what to do.”

Noma stared at her, her mouth open wordlessly. She’d done it, _she’d found Alex_ and he was still alive, but this whole Chosen One horror show wasn’t over, it wasn’t even _close_ to over. She could still lose him and she _couldn’t even touch him!_ Her head felt light and she had to force herself to breath. 

“I know.” Laurel opened her arms and gathered Noma into them. She could feel the angel’s body shake with emotion. “I know.” 

Gabriel stood on the edge of the blast basin. He’d climbed out of the crevasse just a few moments before, forcing himself back into the light. The desire to stay there in the darkness had been strong – this day had been too long, filled with too much pain. His heart yearned for peace, for quiet.

The day, in fact, was much closer to ending than he had expected, and the sun was far across the autumn sky. It no longer angled into the gap at all, and the entire subterranean vault had eventually been bathed in a thick, velvety murk. That had seemed right. 

_How long had he been down there?_

It didn’t matter now, all that mattered now was finding his siblings. He needed the comfort of their company. 

Suddenly, as if in answer to his prayer, there Raphael was running toward him, hand in hand with the girl from Mallory. 

“Gabriel,” she called out as she approached. “Why aren’t you with the others?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you hear? They’ve found him. They’ve found Alex _.”_

He scowled. “No,” he said quietly. “Alex is…he’s gone.”

“No, he’s not. Why do you say that? Michael and Noma, they’ve just found him.” 

He stared at her as if the words were in a language he only partially understood. He shook his head, trying to find a response.

Raphael had no patience for his indecision. A tiny spark of baseless anxiety was threatening to kindle deep down inside her and she was not about to give it any kind of reason to burst into flame – emotions were _not_ her purview. She reached for his hand to drag him with her. “We haven’t the time, just come along and –”

Her eyes opened wide and she lifted his fingers, staring down at the sticky red stains that covered them. In an instant she had grabbed his other hand and quickly twisted them back and forth. They were both covered in blood.

Yet there were no obvious major wounds, nothing so egregious that would cause such a horrible sight. “Brother,” she implored. “What happened?”

Again he shook his head wordlessly. His gaze roamed from his sister to the young girl, Althea, who stared at him nervously and took a cautious step back.

He abruptly gave them both a crooked, guileless smile. “Nothing for you to worry about. Slipped on some rocks.” He pulled his hands back and wiped them ineffectually against his pants. “Is it really true? Is Alex…?” Superstitiously, he didn’t want to say the words out loud.

“Yes, Gabriel,” she snapped, already starting to move away. “Your son is alive. Now come along, we don’t have time.”

While Laurel comforted Noma, Michael carefully started to move the clods of earth and broken pieces of timber that lay around Alex. Raphael might need to move the young man, he rationalized, and she would need space to work. The seconds moved at a glacial pace; he could not stand there and do nothing while they all waited for his sister to appear.

What he actually wanted to do was gather Alex up and hold him tight. He wanted to fly into the sky and find Raphael and bring her back _now_. He wanted to scream into the heavens in agony and guilt and fear. The emotions from his dream danced around the corners of his psyche again, threatening to overwhelm him. He was exhausted and wounded and in pain and he felt very, very mortal. Yet not as mortal as the terribly fragile young man on the ground in front of him.

His jaw clenched tightly and he had to consciously force back the emotions that continuously threatened to leak from his eyes, to keep the nightmare inside. He wanted to remain strong, for Noma, for Laurel, for the Chosen One. 

He could not fail, he could not lose Alex again.

Raphael and Althea ran up to the little group, almost dragging Gabriel between them. He still seemed somewhat hesitant, like a child being forced to attend a wake, unsure of what he would find there.

Then he saw the figure curled up against the stone wall and he fell to his knees on the debris strewn ground. “Alex,” he said, the name coming out on a breath that had been held for far too long. 

Laurel caught his hand before he could touch him. “No, he’s…he’s badly wounded. He’s –”

“There’s no neck injury that I can feel.” Raphael had already gone to Alex’s head and checked his pupils and pulse. Now she ran her fingers over him with rapid, knowledgeable grace. She pulled a stethoscope from her bag and fit the earpieces, then lifted the jacket that covered him. “His heart is in distress,” she announced. Her words were concise; she was the doctor now, she was in charge. “Help me to turn him, I need to check his spine. Noma, come here and hold his head. Michael, stabilize his back. Gently now, try to keep him steady.”

They scrambled into position, everyone but Althea carefully supporting a different part of Alex’s body. Carefully they started to roll him onto his side, his head resting in Noma’s lap.

“My God,” Laurel gasped. Her worst fears had come true. “He’s been stabbed.”

Noma looked up. “Oh no, no, no. Oh shit, Alex, oh shit.”

“Stop!” Raphael barked. “Hold him still.” Her hands carefully ran up and down his back, gently but decisively palpating around the bloody metal handle that protruded obscenely from his ribs. Her fingers came away sticky and wet…and shaking. “Alright, I don’t feel any obvious spinal injury. Lay him down. Slowly, very slowly. We can't jar the blade.”

It took nearly a minute to do what should have taken only seconds. Finally Alex was settled on the ground. His breathing shifted slightly, now even shallower. 

Noma’s face twisted up in anguish and she pointed to the blade. “That’s Alex’s mother’s knife. I left it with him in the church. He…he didn’t do that to himself.”

“Lucifer would have known that it was made of empyrean steel,” Michael said, “and that Alex is half-archangel. He wouldn’t have made the same mistake he made with me.” He stared at the young man’s motionless form, conversations he had had finally making sense. “I think that was Alex’s plan all along, to force Lucifer into using that knife. He was willing to sacrifice himself, but not for Lucifer.” His face twisted into a look of bittersweet pride. “Alex did it for the rest of us.”

“He’s still alive now, that’s the important part.” Raphael stood and backed away a few steps. Her tone was still detached yet there was a note of distress that had not been there before. The professional demeanor had developed a few cracks. “Alex is alive,” she repeated, staring at the hilt of the knife. “If the patient is alive, there are always options.” She said it like a mantra she had learned in school. “There have to be options, I just…I just need to think.”

Gabriel watched Alex on the ground next to him, so quiet, so still. Noma cradled his head in her lap, her tears falling onto his face. The last of the sun’s rays just peeked over the short stone wall and they kissed the young man’s dirty, tousled curls with a rosy glow that contrasted with his too-pale skin.

He stared, too, at the handle of the blade that erupted from his son’s back. The sight made him almost dizzy.

_Not again, not again, not again…_

In his mind’s eye, he thought about the last time he and Alex had been together, in the makeshift stable back at the Arsenal. It had been an awkward moment, both of them so set in their ways.

His hand reached toward Alex’s cheek, shaking a bit. Dark red-brown still stained the grooves in his knuckles and around his nails. Violence had been such a part of his life recently. In truth, the last time he could remember touching Alex’s face, it had been to administer a beating back in the aerie. He would never forgive himself for that.

His fingers trembled as they brushed the skin of Alex’s cheek. Gabriel smiled to himself. Still so youthfully soft. The stubble of a beard not finished growing in yet. Alex was so very _young_.

He felt the dampness of tears on his fingertips. “Alex,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “Stay strong, my boy. Stay strong like your mother.” 

He glanced up at Noma. The girl, Althea, had snugged up behind her, one arm around the angel’s shoulder, both seeking support and offering comfort while Noma mindlessly caressed the top of Alex’s head. They were an odd pair, higher angel and teen, and yet they seemed to have forged a quick and strong bond.

Never before had he seen Noma so vulnerable as this, so emotional. She’d always been a soldier, a warrior, her heart an afterthought to the exigencies of her position, whatever that position may have been. This, this was something different. This wasn’t a matter of choosing one side or another – she had chosen _Alex_. 

In a way it gave Gabriel hope. He reached for his son’s hand, laying in the dirt, and carefully wrapped his fingers around it. “She needs you, this one,” he said, squeezing gently. “I think…I think perhaps we all do. I once called you a wrecking ball, but the truth is, we seem to be a wreck without you.”

Without warning, Alex gave a sudden, shuddering cough. His chest fluttering ineffectually under the jacket as he struggled even harder to get his breath and his face contorted with pain.

Gabriel nearly fell backward in alarm. _“Raphael!”_

This had never happened to her before. Raphael had never had these doubts before. 

_Never._

It was fair to say that she was the most skilled healer on the face of the earth. Not just now that the human population had been reduced to a mere handful, their scholars and doctors winnowed away by war and time. No, Raphael had millennia of knowledge at her fingertips, multiple cultures and disciplines to choose from, a vast database of medical doctrine and practice that she had perfected over the centuries. She was simply the best.

Yet now she stood practically frozen, staring at the young man lying on the ground, staring at _her nephew_ , transfixed by the discolored knife handle that rose from his back like some kind of awful growth. Blood gradually pooled in the dirt around him in a thick, muddy mass. Her stomach lurched unexpectedly – she was used to seeing injuries, to seeing blood, even on her own kin. This, however, was different. 

Or perhaps it was the same. The knife was in nearly the identical place that she had stabbed Charlotte, on the left side of his back.

_…where she had stabbed his mother…_

Her heart sank. The diagnosis was not that difficult. His pupils were dilated, he was barely breathing and his skin was cold. She was sure of her conclusion, cardiac tamponade – his heart was being slowly drowned in its own blood, unable to properly function due to the pressure around it. She had no idea how he had held on this long. 

Thoughts ran through her head. Her medical kit was rudimentary at best, there was no way she could do anything but mop up the blood that continued to pool beneath him. Moving him from here was out of the question – given the angle of the handle, the viciously sharp blade had already pierced at least one coronary blood vessel and they might have already done more damage to his heart simply by turning him over. Removing the blade here would cause a massive blood loss and she had no way to stabilize his blood pressure. 

And even if they could move him, could remove the blade, the medical bus didn’t have the equipment to stop his heart so that she could repair the damage. 

_If the patient is alive, there are always options._

The words mocked her and she felt the same sense of despair that she had felt in her dream. What were the options? Frustration burned at the back of her throat; this was so much more difficult than usual. It was impossible to find the detachment that she had cultivated, the impartiality that allowed her to make decisions because this was _Alex,_ her _family_.

The thought of Charlotte flashed again in her mind. Her face twisted into a grimace, she was thinking and regretting and trying to find an answer and it was all so very much. And yet she felt that there was something out there, something just out of her mental reach that she wasn’t grasping. When she needed it most, when it came down to healing her own flesh and blood, she could do nothing. Her talent had fled her, she was nothing but a fraud, a charlatan.

_“Raphael!”_

She could hear the near-panic in Gabriel’s voice and rushed to his side. She squatted down and pulled out the stethoscope again, pressing it to Alex’s chest. 

“He’s suffocating,” Gabriel said. It was obvious that he was doing everything he could to stay calm. “The time for thinking is over, you must do something.”

Raphael looked up, first at Gabriel, then at the rest of the people gathered around. “He’s very weak,” she said as she held Alex’s wrist, feeling his pulse again. “His heart is beating against its own blood. And the knife, I’m afraid to take out, it might…” 

Gabriel’s hand wrapped around her arm and she glanced over at him once more. He looked more than war weary, more than beaten and injured, he looked… _shattered_. She’d seen him look devastated like that before, lying on the ground holding his dying wife. Now, unlike then, it tore at her. 

“Please,” Gabriel begged. “He’s my son.”

“I know that. It doesn’t change the reality of his injuries.” 

“Raphael,” Michael called. He was standing to the side, Laurel tightly clasped in his arms. “You’re the wisest of us all. You can do this, sister. I have faith in you.”

Faith. _As if that was all it took_. She brushed her fingertips along Alex’s forehead, pushing back the hair across his forehead. It was a useless, reflexive movement, a comforting placebo. His skin felt cool, almost cold now, and had taken on a bluish tint. That wasn’t good, that wasn’t good at all.

Words and pictures tumbled through her thoughts…she felt as if she were drowning in them. Always she came back to Charlotte, to the woman she had killed in exactly the same way as Alex was now dying. The guilt smothered her like a thick smog until all she could think about was Gabriel holding Charlotte’s lifeless body. She had killed Charlotte and now she was going to kill her son. “I’m sorry, I don’t think that there is anything I can do.”

Noma broke down into wrenching sobs, curling over Alex’s head. “No, no, no,” she crooned through her tears.

“I don’t get it,” Althea said softly. Her face was tear-stained as well. She pulled a half-empty box of matches from the pocket of her dress. “Why can’t you fix him like Noma fixed Michael?”

“Oh, my dear child.” Raphael struggled to speak. “You don’t understand. Alex isn’t an archangel. He’s only…”

She stopped, her eyes going wide, the words caught on her tongue. Her fingers traced again over Alex’s forehead, over the four-day old bruise that should have still been there. “He’s only half-angel,” she whispered to herself. Her eyes followed down to his shoulder, to the faded tracks of stitches that should have only just begun to heal. She’d noted it before, Alex’s remarkable healing powers. He’d even said that he’d never been sick.

 _Only half-angel._ Her breath started coming faster as the ideas finally made some kind of coherent pattern.

Only half _arch_ -angel. Perhaps it was enough, if they could help him…

“You’re right, Althea,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm, trying to keep the excitement that was brewing inside her under control. “Alex isn’t merely human. He’s the Chosen One, and that makes him _very_ special.” She turned toward Gabriel. “Brother, I’m sorry, I think the answer has been staring at me the entire time, I’ve been too distracted to see it. Please, tell me – Charlotte. How did you save her years ago?”

The archangel looked as if he’d been struck across the face. “What?”

“Charlotte,” she said again. “You saved her before, I heard you say it to her. How did you do it?”

“I…she was bleeding. I…”

“Possession,” Michael interrupted. “Gabriel possessed her so completely that he stopped the cells in her body.”

“Yes, that’s what I was hoping.” She reached for Gabriel’s hands. “Can you do it, can you do that again?”

Gabriel’s shook his head, horrified. “Alex will…he’ll hate me for it. There has to be another way.”

“Dammit, this isn’t about you!” Noma was nearly shouting. “You can ask his forgiveness when he’s conscious again.”

Raphael put out a calming hand. “I know, Noma. But it _is_ about Gabriel.” She let out a little laugh that seemed completely out of place. The thoughts were coming so fast, it was hard to keep up, but they were lining up now, making sense, organizing themselves in her mind like a thesis. “It’s about you because you’re the only one that can do the possession. And you’re his father. I can’t explain, and I can’t say that I’m completely certain, but I think it will work. Alex isn’t completely human, he’s not completely archangel, it wouldn’t work with any of the rest of us, but I think…the DNA you know, it might be enough,” she laughed again. “Yes, I think it will, but we can’t wait –”

“Raphael!” Gabriel cut her off. “What are you babbling about?”

"Healing him. Just as Althea said – such a bright girl.” Her eyes were moving about unfocused, as if she were reading treatises in her mind. “But only _your_ feathers, brother. Only yours. You’re his father. I think…I think there’s enough genetic bond between you. It won’t be as fast, and you’ll have to…” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, concentrating. “You’ll have to control the possession. It can’t be complete, his cell functions can’t be stopped completely. He needs to be able heal, but…slowly.” She opened her eyes again and looked at him fervently. “Do you understand? Can you do that? It’s going to take its toll, it’s going to be exhausting.”

Gabriel stood, rolled his shoulders and flexed out his wings. They were obviously as battered as he was, one of them broken, feathers missing and frayed, a sad remnant of their usual majestic splendor.

He pulled out one of the primaries. “Then we’d best begin.”

The moon was moved gradually into the heavens, shining through the haze of dust, smoke and explosives. By tomorrow, the sky would be clear. The earth would take much longer.

The little group huddled in bunches – around Alex, around the fire that had been built nearby. Some of the villagers had come, bringing much appreciated blankets and food and news of the recovery efforts. They brought their contributions, watched the tableau anxiously for a few moments and then departed. Everyone spoke in whispers while Raphael worked, Gabriel at her side.

Noma had encouraged Althea to go back to what was left of the town, but the young girl had refused. Her brother had family to take care of him, she said. Noma did not. She would stay. 

It took everything the higher angel had left in her not start crying all over again. 

Now Noma lay on the cold ground on one side of Alex, his head resting on a pillow of folded cloth, her hand cradling his cheek. Eventually Althea had snuggled down behind her and draped a comforting arm around her waist and a blanket over them both. She could feel the girl gradually relaxing as exhaustion overtook her, her slow breathing a soothing, soporific cadence. 

Gabriel sat at Alex’s other side. His arms were wrapped around his knees and his head bobbed occasionally as he fought off sleep only to snap awake again. He’d done everything he could, followed Raphael’s instructions to the letter. Now all they could do was wait.

It had been so very strange to possess someone he knew, to have that kind of intimacy with someone who, well, frankly despised him. When he had saved Charlotte it had been a matter if necessity, a kind of communion of need, but he had known her intimately before, her body had not been completely foreign to him.

Since that time, he had possessed a number of other strangers, throw-away subjects that had little interest or value to him, or at least he had thought so at the time. And then, of course, there had been Julian, but that little escapade had been malignant in all sorts of terms.

No, this had been…uncomfortable. And yet, yet he had felt something good out of it…something intangible, something he was having a difficult time putting to words. 

It almost felt – it was ridiculous to say, even for an archangel – it almost felt that just for a moment, for a split second of time, he had been able to hug his son’s soul.

He chuckled softly to himself, a fatigued, semi-delirious sound.

_Ridiculous._

Michael sat down next to him with less grace than usual. “What are you laughing about?” He kept his voice low so as not to disturb Noma and the girl.

Gabriel shook his head. Even that seemed like an effort. “Nothing. Tell me, why is it that I’m never as exhausted as when I am with you, brother?”

“I was just about to say the same thing.” Michael tipped his head toward Alex’s still form. “How is he?”

“Sleeping now. He’s no longer under my… _influence_. Raphael’s done everything that she could. She’s gone to try to find some fluids for him, she said he lost quite a bit of blood and his pressure is low. That isn’t something a few primaries could fix.” 

They were both silent for a few minutes. Waiting. Watching. 

Finally, Michael spoke again. “Laurel is going to go back to the school. She wants to help organize accommodations. Between here and the Wildcats, there are a few thousand newly recovered eight-balls to take care of and most of the buildings have been damaged. It’s going to be interesting.”

“Jenkins is probably having kittens. He’s gone from fighting them to feeding them in twelve hours.”

“Exactly.” He reached over and laid a hand on Alex’s shoulder. Under the blanket, he could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the normal rhythm of sleep. “Did Raphael give you a prognosis?”

“No.” Gabriel scuffed at the dirt with his boot. “It’s a veritable miracle that Alex’s body was able to heal the way that it did. Nonetheless, there could be permanent…effects.”

Michael let out a long breath. “I have faith, brother.”

It took a moment, but then Gabriel turned toward him and offered a small, crooked smile. “I do, too. Father’s plan and all. You and I are getting along much too well. There must be some other person around to continually remind me of my failures and shortcomings.”

Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps Alex could hear them, but it was at that moment that he let out a muffled noise, somewhere between a word and a groan.

“Alex?” Noma was instantly awake and kneeling next to him. She cupped his forehead, his cheek, feeling for fever. “Alex, can you hear me?”

“Alex?” Both Gabriel and Michael huddled close. 

Another groan and Alex rolled over onto his side. “Ugh, my head.”

“Your head.” Noma looked up at the two archangels, tears glistening in her eyes. “Your _…head,”_ she repeated in disbelief. She leaned down to wrap her arms around him, laughing and crying at the same time, an odd kind of emotional overload.

He reached up and awkwardly dropped his arm onto her back, making little comforting movements. “Hey, Nomes, it’s okay,” he said groggily. “I’m okay.”

That seemed to set her off even more. “You’re not okay!” Now she cried freely, her tears falling onto his bare shoulder. Words mixed in with her sobs, barely able to be understood: _“stupid savior complex”, “making me leave,”_ and _“practically died!”_

He shushed her softly, rubbing her back as he fought his way toward full consciousness. Finally he was able to open his eyes and he squinted up into the dark night. “It’s okay,” he repeated automatically, his voice still somewhat weak. Then he looked around and spied Michael. “Where are we?”

“A little distance from where the church used to be. There was an explosion.” The archangel gave him a patient smile. “She’s right, you know. We thought we had lost you.”

“No, I’m fine. My head just hurts.”

Noma sat up and glared at him. “You got stabbed, you ass. Your head’s too damn thick to ever get hurt.”

He reached up and pushed the hair that fell across her face back behind her ear, then wiped the tears from her cheek. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s delirious.” 

“You said explosion.” Alex looked back at Michael seriously. “I remember using the markings. I had control I’ve never had before.” He stared down at his arm. The loops and whorls, the tattoos on his skin, they looked… _lighter_. “Is it over? I mean, did it work?”

“I believe so. Lucifer hasn’t been seen since the blast. We’ve lost most communications, but at least here all the eight-balls have been cured.”

“All of them?” He struggled to sit up.

“Stay down.” Noma put her hand on his shoulder. “I wasn’t kidding, Alex. You got stabbed in the heart.”

“Yeah, you said that. It doesn’t feel like it.” He rubbed his hand over his chest. “I remember that we had a plan. You left my mother’s knife with me at the church.”

“Yeah, well it was a stupid plan, and her knife ended up in your back!”

That left him frowning. “I don’t remember that part.”

“Well just be glad Raphael and Gabriel came up with a way to save you.”

Up until this point, Gabriel had been content to quietly remain to the side. Now Alex turned toward him. “You saved me?”

“Yes. Raphael and I.”

Alex closed his eyes. “You…and Raphael.” _Of all the people, of all the archangels in the world, it had to be those two._ Then he looked up again. “How?”

Gabriel picked up an iridescent black feather and twirled it nonchalantly between his fingers. “There are advantages to being at least somewhat angelic.”

“You used one of those…on me?”

“More than one. More than a few actually. And,” Gabriel sighed uncomfortably, “there may have been…some possession involved.”

“ _Possession?”_ The way Alex said it made it sound like an expletive.

Michael cut in. “Raphael determined that it was the only way to save you. You were mortally wounded, Alex. Only Gabriel’s feathers could heal you and only he could keep you alive.”

Alex stared at his father. “You… _possessed_ …me.”

“Only as long as I had to and only to the degree needed. If there had been any other way…” Gabriel trailed off, his head low. There were no other words.

For a long moment there was silence in the little group. The fire snapped and hissed, and in the distance they could hear people already working on the damaged town.

“Thank you.”

Gabriel’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Thank you,” Alex repeated. “It can’t have been easy for you. You look like hell.”

The archangel gave an awkward half-laugh. “Well, yes, we’ve all had better days.” Then he turned thoughtful. “I would do anything for you.”

“I know.” Alex said. He gave a shaky smirk. “You love me.”

Gabriel stared at him open-mouthed, his head tilted a little to the side. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He ran over it a few times in his head. Yes, that was what Alex had said. 

_Noma had to be right – the lad was obviously delirious._


	16. Chapter 16

_Epilogue_

_1 Corinthians 13:8-13 – Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known. So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love._

_Day 3_

_Gulf of Mexico_

Gabriel sat leaning against the tree, his face turned up to the sun, basking in its unseasonable warmth. It gently baked into him, soothing the residual aches and pains, the smaller tolls of battle. He wore only the sleeveless tunic shirt that fit under his armor and a borrowed pair of BDU’s (his own leather pants had seen better days) and the gentle sea breeze and late fall sunshine on his skin were like Nature’s own lullaby. He couldn’t have kept his eyes open if he wanted to.

“This, this…party,” he mumbled sleepily. “This was your woman’s idea.”

“Yes.” Michael shifted next to him. He sounded almost as drowsy. “She and Mouse came up with the plan, a way to bring the Wildcats together with the angels, the people of Mallory and the newly Restored. We need to learn to live together now.” The scent of roasting meat wafted past them along with the sounds of festivity. The farmers of Mallory had slaughtered a couple of pigs and number of chickens and donated more than a few jugs of hard cider. “Besides, they should celebrate. It’s not every day that they get their lives back.”

Gabriel agreed – they should celebrate. They had won a war that by all measures had been un-winnable, the odds stacked against them. Then they had spent two days bandaging the wounded and burying the dead. They needed to relax, to remember what they had fought for, all of them. 

The brothers both pondered this as they listened to the sounds of large truck arriving. Probably another transport from Redstone Arsenal with more food and more supplies. Jenkins’ people had been remarkable efficient, not that that was unexpected. As soon as the units near Mallory had gone radio silent, the people at the Arsenal had sent both the big drone and a trio of transports laden with everything from medical supplies to the last of the troops. The blackout had in fact been localized, communications had been restored and Raphael had accompanied the worst of the wounded back to the base. Ten hours later, Jenkins was back in control from a makeshift recliner in the C&C trailer, getting reports from New Haven, Vega and Helena. 

The news had been everything they had hoped for – the eight-balls had been cured wherever they could be found. The war was truly over.

There would be more work to be done, of course. The information that the Prophet had given them needed to be investigated. They would need to contact those other settlements, to somehow find a way to communicate, to work with them across the distances.

That was the key now, they both knew. To stitch together all those disparate groups, to bring them together and _keep_ them together.

To create a new world _._

Alex and Noma strolled through the trees that edged the beach, Noma’s arm hitched possessively around his. “You’re sure you feel okay,” she asked.

“Yes, I told you, I’m fine.”

“And…last night. It wasn’t too much.”

He stopped and tilted her chin up to gently kiss her. “Last night was perfect. And no, not too much. Stop worrying about me.”

“I’ve been worrying about you for your whole life, Alex, I can’t just stop. You were practically dead two days ago. People don’t usually recover from ‘practically dead’ that fast.”

“For the last time, I’m fine. Besides, you heard them, I’m like half archangel.” He stopped and squinted at her. “Hey, doesn’t that put me above a higher angel?”

“What?” She slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “Only when you’re on top, buddy.”

They walked for a few minutes more, both of them content to breathe in the salt air, to hear the laughter of children, to feel the warmth of the sun as it dappled through the trees overhead. To live.

Eventually they emerged onto the scrub that lined the sandy beach and walked toward the rest of the people. There had to be a couple hundred now scattered along the shoreline. In one place, a makeshift volleyball net had been set up, in another, a sandcastle competition seemed to be going on. Blankets had been spread out and rudimentary tables set up, enough for a veritable feast.

Over to the side, Alex could see a couple of Wildcats sitting with what could only be a group of what were now being referred to as the Restored. The newcomers all seemed to have the same look in their eyes, a kind of bewilderment, but they were clean and they had been given fresh clothes and good food. More than anything else, they were being welcomed.

As were the angels. There were vociferous but good-natured cries of “that’s not fair” and “foul” when a particularly fast higher angel launched herself into the sky to save an un-savable serve during the volleyball game. She was the first to laughingly offer to restrict the use of wings and the match quickly resumed. That is, until she had to fly off to keep the ball from heading into the ocean on an errant gust of wind.

_“Lannon!”_

At first Alex wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

_“Lannon, wait up!”_

He turned to see a dark haired woman trudging over the sand toward them and he stopped walking. Noma could feel his body tense.

“Shit, I’ve been looking all over for you,” Naomi panted as she finally reached them. “Jenkins wants to see you.”

He eyed her warily. “He does?”

“Yeah. I don’t know why, above my pay grade.” She turned toward Noma and gave her a quick onceover. “So, is this her? This your girl?”

The questions were unexpected but came without any hint of jealousy or possessiveness. Alex breathed a silent sigh of relief. He snaked his hand around Noma’s waist. “Yeah. Things…things worked out. This is Noma, my, um…” he stumbled for a second, embarrassed, “…my fiancée. Noma, this is Naomi Lopez. Back at Redstone, she was my –”

The newcomer cut him off. “I was his babysitter and don’t you let him tell you otherwise.” She grinned and stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you.” 

Noma stared at Alex before she turned and shook the proffered hand. “Nice to meet you, too. Alex hasn’t really told me much about you.”

“Not much to tell. We did some salvage together, dug through shit, needles-and-haystacks kind of thing. It’s wasn’t glamorous work but your boy here was pretty good at it. You know, when he wasn’t trying to burn things down.”

Alex blushed. “You’re never going to let rest, are you?”

“No. Never.” 

Noma’s eyebrows rose. “Is there a story I need to know?”

“Probably.” Naomi laughed without malice. “I’ll save you the embarrassment, Alex, you can tell her yourself.” She glanced back toward the main area of the party. “Listen, I’ve got to get back and see what else Jenkins has planned for me before I find a bottle of that cider and drown myself in it. I just want to say, I’m really glad that things worked out for you guys. For both of you. You deserve it. And well, I mean,” she grinned at Noma as she turned to leave, “ _somebody_ needs to keep him in line.”

Noma watched her leave, still not sure what to think. “She’s...interesting.”

“Yeah, she is.” He turned to encircle his arms around her. “She’s a good friend. Someone who was willing to kick me in the ass when I needed it.”

“Oh, you definitely need that. So… _fiancée…_ ” She drew the last word out, a question and an accusation rolled into one.

“Aren’t you?” He leaned down and tenderly kissed the tip of her nose. “I mean, we should probably make it official and get married sometime, and you are wearing my mother’s ring.”

“But you never actually asked.” 

“Didn’t I? Huh. Well then I’m asking. Will you?”

Her eyes flashed mischievously. “I’ll think about it.”

Without warning, Alex lifted her off the ground, spinning around so that she twirled in the air in his arms. Her long hair flew out behind her, and she cried out and giggled and begged for him to stop. 

“Not until you say yes.”

“Yes, yes! Put me down!”

“Yes what?” He stopped but kept his arms tightly wrapped around her waist. The threat was obvious.

“Yes, I’ll marry you,” she said still laughing, then she grew quieter. She gazed into his blue eyes and could see her own feelings reflected back. “I don’t want to spend another day apart.”

She kissed him, a sweet, warm loving kiss, emotion that ran deep and true, and he felt as if he had been blessed. They stood together silently, holding each other, oblivious to everyone else, the sun shining overhead, the sound of the ocean a wordless song just for them.

_Heaven._

Finally Alex nudged her cheek with his chin. “We should probably find out what Jenkins wanted.”

Noma sighed. “Probably.” She broke their embrace and started walking toward the main camp. “One of these days, Lannon, I’m going to get you all to myself for more than a couple of minutes and it won’t involve fighting for our lives.”

Alex snickered wolfishly. “Promises, promises.”

They found the Wildcat Commander-in-Chief under the shade of a large tent, propped against a stack of boxes that looked like they had been set up expressly for that purpose. His right leg, bandaged and splinted, stuck out on the blanket in front of him and his left arm hung in a sling. He used the other to hold a satellite radio phone.

Mouse sat nearby, a collection of paper and books and maps in front of her. She had a pencil caught between her teeth and was busy writing notes with another pen.

Alex and Noma walked into the tent and Alex gave a quick salute. Jenkins waved the gesture off, still talking, then raised one finger in the air for them to wait.

“Yes, I agree,” he said into the phone. “She’s more than qualified, let her know when we’re finished. Miravich will have her hands full with the move back on from Helena to Portland, she can use the help. Of course, of course. Yes, he just arrived. Okay, I’ll put him on.” Jenkins held out the bulky device to Alex. “Someone wants to talk to you.”

Alex leaned down and took the phone gingerly. He remembered using something like this before, tossed to him by a stranger on a motorcycle in the middle of the desert. That had been the first time that he had heard his mother speak although he hadn’t known it at the time. A calm, confident voice in the middle of chaos.

It seemed like a hundred years ago. 

He walked outside the tent, turned the thick antenna away from his face and cleared his throat. “This is Alex Lannon.”

The voice that he heard now was just as confident but now it was a rich baritone. “Captain Lannon, hold for a moment, please.”

There was shuffling noise. “Alex?”

Things had been so busy, so frenzied that Alex hadn’t dared to even consider what had happened back in Vega yet – there would be time to process that soon enough. Now he felt his knees grow weak and his body sag from the release of tension he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. “God, Ethan, you’re alright.”

“Yeah. Mostly.” Ethan’s voice was softly slurred. “You okay?”

“Yeah, buddy, I’m good,” Alex said as Noma wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder. He could feel her body shaking with tiny shudders. Tears of happiness. “Noma’s here, she’s good. We’re all good.”

“So, yeah, sorry I didn’t call earlier, they kind of had to find us in the tunnels. And then they kind of had to do surgery. I _might_ have taken a bullet in the shoulder,” Ethan added, perhaps a little overdramatically,

Alex laughed. “You’re completely out of it, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not – okay, I might be a little drugged up. Doesn’t matter. Everything’s…” It sounded as if he needed to collect himself. “Everything’s okay now.”

“Yeah, yeah it is.”

Ethan was quiet for a moment. “You did it, didn’t you, Alex? I mean, whatever you were going to do, you did it, right? The whole savior, Chosen One thing? ‘Cause, honestly, we were pretty much toast, me and Tim, we weren’t going to make it. And then, you know, we woke up and everything was…like _better_. You did that, didn’t you?” He was wandering a little, his words slurring, but he didn’t care. This was important. “I knew you would. I told him…I told Tim I had faith in you. I knew you would take care of us. I guess…I don’t know…I guess I just want to say thank you.”

Alex swallowed and licked his lips. He wasn’t sure how to respond. He’d heard Ethan’s drunken ramblings before, but this was different. “You don’t have to thank me, Ethan. I told you, we’re brothers.”

“Yeah, brothers.” He inhaled deeply. “I think I’m gonna leave Vega.”

“What?” Alex laughed again. Drugged up or not, he hadn’t expected that from Ethan at all. For all his flouting of rules, Ethan was a fast-track career soldier. 

“Yeah…Commander Jenkins just offered Tim the command of that post, what is it – yeah, Redstone Arsenal. They want to turn it into a settlement. Tim…he asked me to come with him.”

There were many responses that went through Alex’s head, about the Corps and responsibility and rank and all the things that had mattered so much just a few months before. Then he looked down at Noma and she smiled up at him, her green eyes sparkling, and he thought about what he had come so close to losing.

“Do it, man. Go for it.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, definitely. There’s a whole big world out here you haven’t seen yet.” He grinned at Noma. “Just go and be happy. And in a couple weeks, we’ll meet up with you back there and I’ll show you guys the nicest house in the neighborhood.”

Alex walked back into the tent with the sat-phone in one hand, Noma’s gripped in the other. He felt light, as if he’d suddenly lost about forty pounds. His head felt a little dizzy, almost as if he’d been drinking, but he had passed on the cider the people of Mallory had offered. Too many bad memories with that stuff.

Mouse stood up from the piles of papers that she was stacking into files and putting into one corner of the tent. “All good?” she asked, taking back the phone. She sat down next to the commander, and to both Alex and Noma’s surprise, snuggled up to his good shoulder. 

“Yeah, all good. Great in fact. I hear you have a new commander for Redstone.”

“Yes. Tim Holt,” Jenkins answered. “Good man, you’ll like him. One of your mother’s favorites, although she always swore she had no favorites.” He glanced down at Mouse, his eyes twinkling. “We’re going to expand the base, we need the housing for all our new people. It will be a challenge but Tim is up to it. I hear he’s bringing your friend along.”

“Yes. Lieutenant Colonel Ethan Mack.”

“Well, that brings up another subject we’re going to have to attend to.” Jenkins lifted his arm and casually draped it around his XO’s shoulders. The two Wildcats looked up at Alex and Noma as if daring them to say anything about it. “Marissa, make a note to discuss transfers between forces. We’ll have to make some kind of procedure for that. There always needs be a protocol for these things.”

Mouse rested her head onto the commander’s chest and closed her eyes. “Yes, sir.” Her voice was dreamy. “Right away, sir.”

They walked further down the beach for a few moments in silence, then Noma stopped. She tried in vain to smother a grin. “That was…unexpected.”

“You mean Ethan or…Jenkins and Mouse.”

“Both. I mean, I so glad that Ethan’s alright. I mean _really_ glad. And it sounds like he found himself someone special.”

“Yeah, he’d mentioned something about Tim before. I guess Jenkins found somebody, too. I just didn’t expect it to be…Mouse.”

“Or maybe _Mouse_ found _Jenkins_. Stranger things have happened.”

Alex grinned. “Yeah, they have. Like Michael and Laurel.”

“Or the Chosen One and a higher angel. It’s a whole new world, isn’t it?”

Alex reached out to hold the side of her face. He kissed her slowly, savoring the softness of her lips, the heat of her breath, the whisper of her tongue against his. “You’re my world. You know that, right?”

She bit at her bottom lip. “You’re giving me ideas again, Lannon, and there are way too many people around here for what I have in mind.”

A secretive chuckle rumbled deep in Alex’s chest. “Later, I promise. It’ll be dark soon. I’ve got a blanket and you’ve got those beautiful wings. They’ll make a great shield.” He grasped her hand and tried to pull her along. “Come on, I want to talk to Michael and my father about something.”

But Noma didn’t move. “What did you say?”

He laughed. “I said, _later_.”

“No, the other part.”

“What, I want to talk to Michael and my father?”

She tipped her head quizzically. “You’ve never talked about Gabriel like that before.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve never said ‘my father’ and meant it like…like _that_. Like he _is_ your father.”

“Well,” Alex shrugged, “he is.”

Noma smiled. “Yeah, I guess he is.”

“And so,” Alex continued explaining to the two archangels, “I figured we could use the basis of the Archangel Corps and then integrate the Higher Angels and the Powers into the Corps instead of creating another whole force. That way we can use the existing command structure; we’ll just need to change the mission, but we’re going to have to do that for almost all of the military. We won’t need defense as much as we’re going to need help building and connecting what’s left of humanity.”

Gabriel was thoughtful. “It has merit. Integrating humans and angels together is not going to be easy. Not everything is going to go as well as this party.”

“A recognizable chain of command, something that they are both familiar with,” Michael added, “may make it less complicated.”

“Exactly. We can take divisions of the Corps and put them around the country but have a central base, either in Vega or maybe at Redstone. Maybe even have a dual command, one angel and one human.”

“As much as Julian was a self-serving ass,” Gabriel mused, “he did have a few valid points. We should take pains not to create another hierarchy. Chain of command is one thing, a pecking order is another.”

Michael nodded. “I will take responsibility for that and for a solution. We need to work with the higher angels that aligned themselves with Lucifer as well. They had their reasons for doing so and we need to address those for the future. I do not care to fight yet another war with those who feel they have been mistreated. Humans _or_ angels.”

“Nor do I,” Gabriel added. He was sorry about what had happened to Janeck, truly sorry. In the back of his mind, he rather hoped that his former herald hadn’t died, that he was off somewhere recovering from his broken neck. He hoped that Janeck would show up one day, his hair bursting out in every direction, his somewhat vapid face eager to please.

Alex felt himself relax. He was excited about this idea but he was also a little anxious – he was talking about a collaboration on a scale never seen before. Primarily, he hadn’t known how to bring up what Lucifer had said about the hierarchy of angels. Lucifer had had a way of twisting facts but that hadn’t meant that he was completely wrong and what he had alleged had made sense. Michael and Gabriel seemed to have thought about the problem on their own – it was a very good sign.

“I’d be willing to talk to the some of the higher angels,” Noma said, stepping forward. She’d held back a bit while Alex presented his ideas, letting him have the archangel’s full attention. Now it was time to support him. “I’ve worked with Lucifer and I’ve been Archangel Corps, I know what it’s like. I could be kind of a liaison.”

For a moment, both Michael and Gabriel stared at her as if she’d said something wrong. “What? What is it? Do you not trust me?” she said nervously. “Is it the wings? I know, they’re different, but they still work.”

“No, no.” Michael shook his head and looked off into the distance. “No, that is an excellent idea, and yes, of course we trust you, Noma.” He seemed interested but at the same time preoccupied. “I would suggest that you and Alex work with Jenkins and I will contact the command staff in Vega.”

“I’m grounded for a bit longer but I shall talk with the angels that I recruited,” Gabriel added. “We can start from there and see how things go.” He, too, seemed suddenly distracted, like a dog that had lost its scent trail and couldn’t quite find it again. 

Alex nodded. “That sounds good.” He liked this, working together on something positive. He liked the thought of working with his father and his uncle and his soon-to-be-wife. That said, he couldn’t help being a little disappointed – both of the archangels had rather suddenly checked out right when the discussion was going along well. He just kind of wished he knew what the two brothers were thinking.

Noma felt it, too. She watched Michael and Gabriel for a moment, trying to judge their reaction, but could make no sense of it. It didn’t _seem_ to be about her, still she wasn’t sure what was going through their minds.

_What was it with archangels?_

Instead she bobbed her head back toward the water. “Hey, Alex, enough work talk already. It’ll wait until tomorrow. This is supposed to be a celebration, a _party_.” She grabbed his hand and started backing away. “You ever been in the ocean, city boy?”

The two brothers were silent as they watched Alex and Noma head toward the shore. More than a few humans and angels had already stripped down and ventured in. Happy screeches and shrieks accompanied the splashes and laughter, breakers catching more than a few unaware. Little children dug in the sand as the waves lapped over them. Black and white birds skittered back and forth, searching for their dinner while gulls soared gracefully overhead.

“Did you feel it?” Gabriel finally said.

“Yes. She’s carrying his child. It’s only been a few days but there’s no doubt. Congratulations, brother. You’re going to be a grandfather.”

“Yes,” Gabriel’s voice broke. “Yes, but more than that. Did you recognize her?”

Michael nodded thoughtfully. “The angel General Reisen called Clementine, but now whole. Pure.”

“Yes, Clementine.” Gabriel closed his eyes, his bottom lip quivering. “I’ve been less than kind to her in the past.”

“As have I. Gabriel, what is it?”

When his brother opened his eyes, he could see the glint of tears. “She’s forgiven me, Michael. Forgiven us all. It was her choice to become Alex’s daughter, my grandchild. To begin the healing.”

Michael considered this. If Alex had healed the eight-balls and somehow caused the angel called Clementine to be healed… “Do you think the other angels…?” He wasn’t even sure how to say it.

“Our damaged brothers and sisters, floating in the aether? I think Alex cured them all somehow, just as he’s cured the eight-balls. He’s cured their madness.”

It was incredible to even consider. Michael felt a kind of joy he hadn’t felt in millennia. “And more of them will come to earth…as children?”

“I don’t know, perhaps. Think about it – Alex and your child, the first generation of human-angels. Now a second generation with Alex’s child.” He frowned a little. “Someone told me once that evolution takes place after cataclysm. I do rather doubt this grand reorganization of the world was Father’s original plan; He may have had to improvise.”

“You think this was Father’s idea all along? To join our races?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Ponder this, brother. Father always called the humans His greatest achievement. He never said they were actually _finished_. And we angels have much to bring to the table. I think He may have been letting us sort out the details, the corporate merger as it were. We did a fine job mucking it up – rather _I_ did a fine job mucking it, what with breaking the Seventh Seal and all – but we’ve finally figured things out and closed the deal. Now all we have to do is keep from mucking it up again.”

“Lucifer had a hand in things, too, Gabriel. You can’t take all the blame.”

“Yes, we must give credit where credit is due.”

Michael paused. “What of the Son of Morning? No one has seen him. They’ve found the body of the Prophet but not of our brother. I’m fearful this celebration is…premature.”

Gabriel leaned toward him, suddenly quite intense. “Lucifer won’t be hurting Alex, or your child, or any other child ever again.” 

“Brother, what have you done?”

Gabriel sat back against the tree but his casual air was feigned. “It’s not so much what I did as what I know.”

“And tell me, what is that?”

“That Father still loves us, Michael All of us.” He gave his twin that especially endearing smile, his still tear-sparkling eyes crinkling in the corners. “He’s only stepped aside to give us, both humans and angels, the chance to find our own way.” 

Mouse and Laurel walked up to the two archangels, their heads bent together a bit like school children telling secrets, giggling as if they had known each other for years. 

“We’ve been looking for you two,” Mouse announced. 

Michael stood and went over to Laurel. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, feeling the sunshine on her hair, the smell of the sea air. “Gabriel and I have been...discussing matters.”

"Enough already," Laurel scolded. "Discussions can wait."

“Since Jenkins is kind of immobile, he sent me over with this.” Mouse pulled a silver flask from a pocket on her pants and held it out. “He said that he’s been saving it for the occasion. ‘Balvenie 15 year,” whatever that means. He said you’d understand.” 

Michael took it and unscrewed the top, the corner of his mouth tilted up. He remembered sharing a flask with Gabriel not long ago, standing on a hilltop over New Delphi. They’d barely been on speaking terms, Gabriel’s blood had still stained his hands, but the sharing of that drink had started them on the path that had led to this very moment.

He took a swallow and handed it to his brother. Gabriel stared at the flask in his hand for a little while, then he smiled. He understood Jenkins’ message and appreciated it. They’d toasted Charlotte’s memory with scotch back in Vega. Now they would toast her legacy.

_Peace._

He took a generous sip, letting the rich amber liquid roll over his tongue. The Balvenie was sweeter than he was used to but that didn’t make it bad. The moment was sweet, it fit. 

“Thank Jenkins for us,” he said quietly, handing it back. “It was very thoughtful.”

Laurel sighed dramatically. “Really, the two of you! This is a celebration, did you forget? You’re sitting here practically moping.”

“Your woman has a point, Michael,” Gabriel said. “You should be spending time with her, not your moping brother.”

Michael gave him the tiny lift of his brow that served to convey so much, then he turned toward Laurel. “What would you like to do?”

She reached for his hands. “I saw Alex and Noma heading for the beach, they were going swimming. The water looks nice, I thought we could, too.”

“Can you do that?”

“Can I swim? Sure. Oh, you mean _should_ I swim.” She looked up at him coyly and started slowly leading him away. “You’ve got a lot to learn about human women, my love. There’s not much we _can’t_ do.”

Mouse took the flask back and took a long drink. She had an involuntary shiver as the alcohol hit the back of her throat. Her history with spirits was limited and this was a relatively new experience for her but she was more than game. She liked the taste and she liked the way it spread a kind of glow through her chest. She been drinking with Jenkins in the tent before and she realized a bit too late that she was probably already a little tipsy.

Her eyes fell on Gabriel now sitting there all alone. He looked…well, she wasn’t sure how he looked. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, quite well,” he said, but when he looked up at her, his gray eyes seemed a little too shiny and his smile a bit wistful. 

She watched thoughtfully for a moment and then sat down next to him, perhaps less gracefully than she would have like. “You know, I’ve been thinking about it since that first night, since back in New Haven.”

“Thinking about what?”

“About you. I think I understand what she saw in you. Commander Lannon, I mean.”

“Charlotte.”

“Yes, Charlotte.” She’d never given herself permission to refer to the Wildcat Commander that way before, but it seemed somehow acceptable now. “I think,” she paused, wondering if she had the right to say it, wondering if she had a reason not to. “I think she would be proud of you.”

Gabriel leaned back against the tree, his eyes focused somewhere else, somewhere in the past. His hand reached out she gave him the flask again. He opened it slowly, each turn of the cap a mindless act, and when he brought it to his lips, he took only the barest sip. He didn’t want more of the alcohol, he wanted only the taste of it and the memories it brought back. An apartment in Denver on a cold winter day, like a picture in a magazine; a young woman in a green dress, frightened yet so very brave; the same woman, years later, her eyes blazing with fury; the taste of scotch on her lips as he kissed her and she melted into his arms.

He handed it back to Mouse wordlessly and she took another pull. It was mostly gone now. Strange, she didn’t think she’d had that much. Her head wobbled a little as she turned toward the archangel. “What are you going to do now?”

Gabriel looked thoughtful. “I’m sure Jenkins has an idea or two.”

She nodded. “He does. He’d like your help, yours and Michael’s. The other higher angels. He needs help reaching those other settlements. You could be invaluable.” The word did not roll off her tongue quite as intended.

“Plans are already being discussed. I think Jenkins will be pleased.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. What are _you_ going to do?”

Gabriel watched a group of children as they ran past, their arms outstretched, a few crow’s feathers clutched in their hands, pretending to fly. Or were they crow’s feathers? Aban stood nearby, clapping and laughing with delight. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her so happy.

“I’m not actually sure. I think,” he said eventually, “I think I should like to get a dog. Don’t tell anyone, but I just found out that I’m going to be a grandfather. Children like dogs, don’t they?”

Mouse’s eyes wrinkled up in pleasure. “Yes, they do. I think that’s a wonderful idea. And congratulations.” She leaned over and gently kissed him on the cheek. “You’re going to be a very good grandfather.”

Gabriel looked away. He didn’t want her to notice the blush on his cheeks, a very rare thing for an archangel. He didn’t want her to see what those words had meant to him, because he could see much of Charlotte in the tiny commander, much of his wife’s strength and discipline and concern. Those words were not empty platitudes; she had truly meant it.

Tipping her head back, Mouse held the flask over her mouth and let the last few drops trickle out. She licked her lips. “I could get used to that stuff,” she said as she tried to stand, swaying a bit.

He held out his hand to steady her, one brow raised. “I think you’ve had enough.”

She straightened her plain brown shirt and looked down at him, delightfully, drunkenly serious. “For your information, I’m celebrating. I’ve just resigned my commission. I’m done. For the first time since I was fifteen years old, I’m a civilian. I may be working with Jenkins but I am _not_ his XO. I make my own rules now.”

Gabriel watched her, understanding slowly dawning on his face. “Well then.”

“Yes. Things are going to be different. So for the rest of the day, Malcolm and I will be in the tent. _Planning_ things _._ ” She made the euphemism comically obvious. “If anyone needs us, please tell them to kindly piss off. And you, sir,” she gave him a wobbly bow, “have a very nice day.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her head held high, her steps unsteady but determined. 

Gabriel started softly laughing. The feeling bubbled up from deep inside him, bright and sparkling, cascading across his psyche like a spring of cool water. This was a different kind of amusement, not at anyone’s expense, simply _because_. He was happy for Jenkins and the little commander – no, he corrected himself – _for his friends._ They deserved happiness as much as anyone, perhaps even more so.

He looked at everyone around him, at the children and the soldiers, at the Powers and the Restored, the farmers and the doctors, at everyone talking and eating and playing – _together_.

He looked out into the water, at the humans and the angels frolicking there. It was so idyllic, so innocent, so much like the fabled Eden that it was almost absurd. 

Then, out of nowhere, he heard a cry that tore into his heart and he rushed to his feet. He knew that sound, he knew that voice. 

_Alex!_

Gabriel listened franticly, trying to hear again that voice, to distinguish it from the conversations and merriment and all the other noises around him. His angelic eyes scanned the beach, the ocean, desperately looking for any sign of Alex, _of his son_.

There, there he was, flailing in the air over the water…and laughing. Laughing and yelping, held aloft completely naked and helpless like a newborn baby…by Michael.

Michael gave him one great heave and Alex went sailing twenty feet through the air, landing in the water with an impressive splash, much to delight of Noma and Laurel and everyone around them. He popped up almost instantly, spluttering and waving and vowing revenge.

Soon Alex was hauling himself through the waves and leaping onto Michael’s back but that wasn’t enough to sink the archangel. Noma joined in, then a few others and then even more; presently it was a gleeful battle, a wild tangle of bare limbs, splashing water and rapidly changing allegiances. It took more than a little while to finally bring Michael down.

Gabriel sat again under the tree, trying to calm his runaway heartbeat. He wondered how long it would be before he stopped worrying about Alex, about Alex’s children. Probably about the same time he stopped worrying about Michael. He’d never been a very trusting soul and history hadn’t really given him any cause to be otherwise. 

Still…he looked out at the group playing in the water. At his _family._ The thought of it gave him a sense of peace that he had rarely felt before. Perhaps his time with David. His time with Charlotte. 

Those first few moments with Michael.

_Family. Home._

It still hurt, hurt to think of that Christmas Day years ago, when Michael had chosen Alex instead of his own brother. Now it hurt because Gabriel could see how they had all been manipulated, had been maneuvered into a war, a schism that needn’t have been. 

_If only he could have seen it then…how much had he lost because of his blindness, his jealousy?_

He wasn’t jealous now. No. Father had chosen Michael to be Alex’s guardian and Gabriel would not deny him that. Had Gabriel himself picked someone to protect his son, he could not have chosen better.

He would never begrudge Michael his relationship with Alex, he loved them both too much for that. Someday, perhaps, his own connection would grow to that depth, but until then, he would appreciate the trust and the love that existed between them.

The simple bond between a boy and his angel.

_~fin~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy my writing, please follow me on Twitter @ liz_shelbourne . Hopefully, someday I will have news of publication. Until then, dogs, butter (yeah, that's what I do IRL) and occasional ramblings. My email address can also be found in my bio here if you have questions regarding the stories.


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